


he sleeps in his bed (while he plays pretend)

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I'll have warnings at the beginning of each chapter, I'll tag it just in case, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, In this house, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion, Kinda emotional abuse?, M/M, Misunderstandings, Monster of the Week, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Rimming, Rough Sex, Rutting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, brief brief brief mentions of suicidal ideation, but ill be damned if my boy ages in my 'verse!, can easily be skipped over <33, not really mentioned in the story, sorry mr jara son of ahaz, they're dumb, they're hoes but they're sad hoes, they're sort of fucked up fuck buddies?, this more about angst than sex, we love and respect papa vesemir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 34,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: When Yennefer leaves him, Geralt comes back to Jaskier, heart in his hand, anger, hurt, and heartbreak bleeding from it. Geralt grieves his love life with his eyes closed, his body bare and fucking into his bard, Yennefer's name on his lips.On the other hand, as months pass, Geralt's begins to fall in love with Jaskier himself, leaving a huge misunderstanding his wake.Or, Geralt comes back to Jaskier every time Yennefer breaks his heart and fucks Jaskier, who doesn't make a sound, knowing his voice would sound very unlike the sorceress the bard knows Geralt pretends he's fucking into.Main story ends at chapter 25. Prologue and healing portion starts at chapter 26.Title is a modified line from "She" by Harry Styles | Updates every couple days.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, briefly - Relationship
Comments: 1094
Kudos: 1009
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Because hearts get broken

Jaskier looks up at Geralt as the witcher stumbles back into their camp. “Squirrel?” he asks, eyeing the small animal the witcher holds before Jaskier rummages through his bag for spices. He won’t be eating much, if at all, tonight. Shame. His stomach feels hollow but, alas, tis but the pain of a travelling artist. Geralt grunts and sits heavily against a sturdy log as he fetches his knife, carefully skinning and disemboweling the animal and chuckles silently as Jaskier turns his head away from the gore. The bard tugs his lute onto his lap after he skewers and seasons the meat and sets it over the fire. Soon enough, grease drips into the fire as the scent of the roast fills the air. Geralt shrugs when Jaskier declines and bites into the measly squirrel with the hunger to battle the gods.

Jaskier plays a little louder to hide the grumbling of his stomach and sings a little louder to hide the whimpers as his stomachs cramps around nothing. 

~~

They set off early the next day, and after a sleepless night on his thin bedroll, Jaskier’s quite happy at the prospect of a proper bed to rest on, along with mediocre food and pissy ale for nourishment. He chatters as he walks the trail, Geralt on top of Roach as they make haste on the road. He’s barely met with the man’s grunts and Jaskier fills the air with music rather than conversation, not wanting to make the man’s mood fouler.

The traven’s quite full, despite it being early evening. Jaskier looks upon the jolly folk that grace chairs around tables and determines them to be a viable audience. He barters with the travernkeeper, who, rather rudely, laughs in his face when he asks for a free meal. The bard only smiles wider and charms himself a discount, at least, and one free ale. Better than nothing, though, as cheers, claps and stomps fill the room, attracting quite a crowd into the establishment, Jaskier knows he’s been woefully under-paid. At least the townsfolk are more free with their coin than the travernkeeper with his goods and soon enough, the bard’s lute case has a good smattering of coins in and around it.

“Geralt!” He nearly collapses on the witcher, who barely glances at his slightly-sweaty, flushed bard, still in his excessively grumpy mood from the morning for some unknown reason. At least he wouldn't see the way Jaskier gripped the table to keep his balance as the room swayed and the way his body bowed over slightly in pain, hunger wracking through him. He waves at the barmaid and rasps out an order for two stews and two ales. Geralt digs in without hesitancy, taking full advantage of Jaskier’s hard-earned meal as the bard also eats at a pace that nearly matches the witcher’s. They lean back in the booth, sipping at their ale, Geralt glowering and Jaskier flirting with the barmaid that passes their table far too often to be uninterested. “I’m going to get supplies,” Geralt grumbles out, downing the last of the horrid ale before slipping out of the booth. Jaskier hums, preoccupied with his own drink and his smirks to the barmaid. He won’t fall in bed with her tonight, he’s far too exhausted, so much that the thought of pleasure makes him taste ash in his mouth. He stumbles as he stands, and carefully ignores her glance as he tugs his lute-case’s strap over his shoulder and goes to climb the stairs. 

He nearly falls into the lumpy bed, a long moan leaving his mouth as he relaxes into the stiff bed. He’d take it over the rough ground, with its pebbles and sticks, any day. The sun is still high in the sky as the bard’s eyes slip closed into sleep.

~~

The sun’s set when Jaskier wakes. Drool drips between his parted lips and the bard wipes it away as he sits up on the bed, his hair defying gravity and good clothes rumpled. Geralt should have been back by now. He should probably have been back hours ago. The bard quickly tugs his boots on, feeling ridiculous for having allowed himself such deep rest when the witcher could’ve been stoned, spit on, or worse, driven out without him there to defend him He quickly runs down the stairs of the tavern and asks the nearest barmaid if she’s seen a witcher about. To his luck, it’s the same one he'd rejected yesterday. She walks away from him in an annoyed scowl, leaving him without answer. Shit, fuck, shit, he should’ve insisted on going with Geralt, no matter how fucking exhausted he'd felt, he should’ve—Oh.

Hm.

His worry twists into jealousy as he catches Geralt’s head thrown back in quiet laughter, the witch sitting opposite to him on the dingy tavern bench, looking out of place in the sorry establishment with her royal dress embellished with fine violet thread and her hair in perfect rivulets down her back. He begins walking over to them, only to hesitate and, eventually, halt as Geralt cups her cheek from across the table with a soft fondness that makes Jaskier’s heart stop. The look in his eyes as he leans forward to kiss her—he can’t bear to look at it, can't bear to watch. 

He slips out the door of the tavern and takes his lonely heart for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you thought in the comments and with kudos! Chapter title from "Golden" by Harry Styles. 
> 
> Update: just edited it, was too impatient to do so before so thanks for having put up with my terrible mistakes!


	2. He lives in daydreams with me (he)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[[SPOILERS/WARNING]]]]]] Geralt shoves Jask against wall and kisses him out of the blue without explicit consent.

The night is rather cold this time of year. Fall has held her grip over the lands but Winter slowly creeps in and Jaskier shivers as he makes his way through mostly-empty streets, passing closed shops and carts, whose owners are, without doubt, in the tavern, where the bard should be on stage, singing his heart out. Instead, he’s out on the streets, a sour taste in his mouth and a rotten feeling in his stomach. 

He thinks of her. In their bed. Wrapped around Geralt, hips moving languidly over his own as she draws her pleasure out from the witcher. The image makes Jaskier grit his teeth and he stops to lean against a wall, exhausted all of a sudden, the thought of their coupling leeching every bit of the blissful rest he’d had. 

It’s just so unfair, isn’t it? He’s loved Geralt for years, stuck through him through months without contracts and coin. He’s fed him and put a roof over his head whenever they come across a town and Jaskier knows that the simple fact that he provides for his witcher doesn’t obligate Geralt to love him back but that isn’t it, is it? It’s not the money he spends on the witcher that had given him hope of Geralt’s love. It had been the offering to let Jaskier eat first of whatever Geralt had hunted. It had been the small smile that the bard coaxes out of him with especially raunchy songs and the sharing a look when they were about to be cheated out of coin. The huddling under the same bedroll during colder nights and the gentle tapping of his boot to Jaskier’s songs around the fire.

He sighs, loud and long with no one to hear him. _Gods_ , he’s tired.

Of course, that had been before she’d come along and had crushed the little hope that Jaskier had begun nurture in his chest.

He begins walking down the cobblestone street again, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

She’d walked into their lives in a literal whirlwind, eyes glowing and soul greedy for an ancient being’s powers. Yennefer of Vengerberg had been terrifying. And for Geralt, she had seemed perfect. So like him, beautiful, feared, powerful, straight to the point, and _everything that Jaskier was not._ Jaskier doubted that Geralt even saw him as a person— he was a doll of a bard, silly, playful, reckless, stupid.

And yet, before it all, Jaskier had _hoped._

He longed for the days, filled with uncomplicated flirting, sly smiles, and easy care for one another, the easygoing times he’d had with his witcher after their rough start. He’d felt young, been lovesick, an arrogant son of a bitch and he’d thought he’d have all the time to court his witcher, unaware that an evil fucking sorceress was going to get her clutches on his dear heart.

Clouds slowly lighten into soft blues as the sun rises. He supposes it’s time to head back, she never stays till the morning and he’s given her plenty of time to leave, even the streets fill with common folk heading to work or stumbling home, drunk. 

He walks through the tavern door, nodding to the barkeep before he makes his way upstairs. Hesitation be damned, he opens the door after a couple knocks, the rusty key turning in the keyhole and the wooden door swings open with a creak. 

The ratty curtains are closed and early morning light shines dully through the cloth, giving Jaskier enough visibility to see Geralt, his hair in disarray and his clothes rumpled, hunched over himself on the edge of the bed, Yennefer long gone.

“Geralt?” There’s a deep sorrow in the air, he doesn’t need witcher senses to know the way it permeates the room. He gets no reply, not even a nod, much less a grunt. “What’s wong?” He kneels in front of the man, careful not to touch him. He knows the witcher won’t tell him, that he’s not trusted enough to be told. He sighs softly and begins to rise to his feet. “Come on, then, a good contract ‘ought to cheer you up and I overheard the alderman talking of something or the oth—” and he’s being pulled into a kiss, breath stolen from his lungs as Geralt shoves him against a wall, teeth nipping at his lips, body pressed against his.

Well fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said updates every couple days but I couldn't resist! Lemme know if there're any mistakes, I proofread myself. Thank you for guys for your enthusiasm on the last chapter <3 Comments make my day!!! Title from "She" by Harry Styles (lmao can you tell which album I'm fixated on atm?) We're not quite at the geraskier smut yet but we're getting there!


	3. Don’t know if you love me (or if you want me dead)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[[SPOILERS/WARNING]]]]]] Jaskier muses about geralt's power and how he (geralt) could force him (jaskier) into sex. Mentions the word rape. geralt also pins jaskier to the wall and touches him in a sexual manner without jaskier's explicit consent.

Jaskier’s breathless as Geralt pulls away from the kiss and turns him to face the wall, taking to his knees as he pulls down the bard’s breeches and smallclothes, hands digging into the soft skin of his arse. “Geralt, what the fu—” the bard’s forced to break off into a moan as the witcher bites into his arse-cheek, sucking and kissing it till Jaskier’s sure that it’ll leave a horrid (beautiful) bruise. He trails kisses from his cheek and the kissing and sucking is quickly redirected to Jaskier’s hole as the bard’s knees buckle under the onslaught of pleasure and shock. A high whine escapes his lips as Geralt licks him out relentlessly, spitting onto his hole as Jaskier pants, pressed against the wall. He can feel the man’s spit cool in the chill air of the room, shivers as he feels the witcher shift behind him, standing before capturing his lips and continuing their violent kiss.

He probably looks ridiculous, neck craned to meet Geralt’s lips, his own probably bruised, probably bleeding, his back is arched and arse’s stuck out as the witcher hastily unties the leather cord around his trousers, his cock heavy and hot as he ruts against Jaskier’s hole, cheeks spread in a bruising grip. It’s rough and on the side of too much friction but _Geralt is touching him_. Kissing him, nearly fucking and Jaskier would’ve cried if there was any time to in their rough touches.

He keens as Geralt kisses down his neck, and Jaskier hastily unbuttons his doublet and tugs off his undershirt before the witcher rips it off to expose his shoulders. Geralt works marks into his newly-exposed skin as he holds his bard, fingers digging into slim hips so harshly that it makes Jaskier giddy with the idea of having the witcher’s finger-shaped bruises for days. His own cock bobs betweens his legs, his forearms bracing against the wall as he leaks precum, desperate to be touched. “Ger—” he’s cut off by the witcher’s breathy moans as he spills over the small of Jaskier’s back, a soft name that is _distinctly_ not his own steals all the air left in the bard’s lungs, his arousal forgotten in the name of heartbreak. 

_“Yen.”_

The witcher collapses against him with the sigh of her name and Jaskier’s mind reels from where he’s pinned. Yen. Yennefer. He’s feeling so much that he’s not quite sure what to express. Anger. But there’s hurt. There’s betrayal and the sliver of hope that’d managed to sneak in again but was now crushed under Geralt’s boot, spit on, and kicked off a ledge and into the River Ismena for good measure. He feels so much and so intensely that all he can do when Geralt gets off of him and leaves without a word, is turn and numbly slide down the wall, the witcher’s cum smearing against his back as he sits, shaking knees drawn up to his chest. _Yen. Fucking Yen._

Even stronger the numbness, he feels violated, taken advantage of.

Geralt had taken him without warning, without explicit consent and if Jaskier was a little less in love with him and had enjoyed their fucking a little less, he would’ve classified the touches as _rape_ . Suddenly, Jaskier feels a thrill of fear he’s never felt before as he realizes the raw power Geralt holds. Sure, he’s _known_ that he’s a witcher and has immense physical strength, he’s seen it on hunts and fights but Jaskier had always figured that his friend wouldn’t use it on _him_. 

Now, his body mottled with bruises, his heart wrecked and his chest tight, he’s not so sure. A part of him doesn’t believe that Geralt would’ve forced him if Jaskier _truly_ hadn’t wanted, but that part of him shrinks smaller with each minute.

He’d fucking wanted it, he can’t deny that, though. He’d wanted it, wanted _him_ and that scares Jaskier the most, knowing he’d let Geralt touch him again and again and pretend that Geralt was touching him because he wanted him and not because the witcher was _using_ him.

He stands on wobbly legs, biting down a sob as he feels the cold of Geralt’s cum raise goosebumps on his skin. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He hastily wraps a blanket around himself and catches a maid cleaning the hall to bring him a bath before he shuts the door and collapses against it.

His face is grim as he tries to sort himself out; but what’s the point of sorting his feelings out? It’s not as if he’ll magically love Geralt less. A bitter chuckle escapes his throat and he’s grateful for the tub and buckets of hot water that force him to stand, smile, and thank the maids that enter and exit his room, a distraction from his turmoil—but again, what’s the point of thinking about it, really. It’s not as if Geralt cares enough to talk about it. They’ll go back and pretend that it never happened, that nothing has changed, what else is there to say? He sits in the hot water and tries to forget the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally gotten into the smexy sexies and the feelings that come with it! Also, apparently, this story's writing itself so uh, sorry for the three consecutive updates in a row, I have no self control. Eeee, im really, really nervous about posting this chapter lemme know if you think it's trash or not <3 
> 
> Chapter title from "Teeth" by 5 Seconds of Summer! (Wonderful fucking song by the way, i thought it went well with the theme of this chapter, especially from jaskier's pov :))


	4. Love is fatal (won’t you give it a chance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[[SPOILERS/WARNING]]]]]] Geralt fucks jaskier without explicit consent and there's no aftercare/comfort after the roughness. he also thinks that fucking jask will get jaskier out of his (jasksier's) sour mood.

Geralt rushes into the room after Yennefer; the bed still smells like the bard—Jaskier had only just walked out and the witcher was going to take full advantage of the empty room. He moans softly as Yenn palms him through his breeches before undoing the chords that tie it. They've been away from each other for far too long and it shows in the way they touch, harried, desperate. He tugs her dress over her head, continuing the kiss as he takes her to the bed. It’s heavenly—he’s between her legs, kissing, licking as she intertwines her fingers into his hair, tugging, urging him on with each writhe on the sheets and each sound from her lips. She tastes sweet, pure as he pleasure’s he and he feels as if he’s on fire in the best of ways as she comes undone under his ministrations. He lines his cock up with her cunt and is about to push in when he finds himself on his back, a gasp choking out of him as she seats herself onto his cock without hesitation or warning. Fucking hell, has he missed this, missed her, and he can’t decide if it’s all too much or too little.

They fuck till the sun threatens to rise and then continue for a little longer before they both collapse into the lumpy mattress, chests heaving, lips swollen red. She’s beautiful, a pleased and satisfied smile on her face, her body still covered with a sheen layer of sweat from their coupling, and without realizing, Geralt leans in to kiss her again, a sigh escaping his parted lips as she kisses back, soft, languid, but pulls away before it can get loving. “You can’t keep doing this,” she mutters, her voice tainted with bitterness, the scent of her satisfaction giving away to misery and anger. “The cursed djinn makes you feel these things, I’m bound to you. You have to remember that what you’re feeling isn’t real, Geralt.”

Oh, but isn’t it? Couldn’t it be? If they’d just stop fighting their bond, they could have each other, they could be happy. He craves her acceptance of his heart but he knows that he’ll never have it. Geralt bites his tongue and replies with a brief humm as she gets redressed. It’s too little, he decides. Much too little.

She leaves, and eventually, he tugs his clothes back on and sits at the edge of the bed, too weighed down by his heart to move.

~~

Jaskier comes back, smelling miserable and angry and Geralt finds himself  _ so fucking tired  _ of the smell, the scent of sour, rotting grapes and of burning wood chokes him so much so that he knows the only way to get rid of it is—he shoves Jaskier against the wall and kisses and he can finally breathe as the scent is replaced with shock and  _ want _ . Jaskier wants this, to be fucked rough, it makes him sigh happily at the end; Geralt’s heard it through thin walls of multiple taverns many times over the time they’ve spent traveling together. He just wants to make  _ someone _ happy, forget about his shitty love life for a moment and just take and give, simply that.

He gives, licking into Jaskier’s arse, biting his cheek, marking him with bruises he knows the other man craves, loves. He takes, rutting against Jaskier’s hole, listening to the bard’s sounds, his beautiful voice in cut-off moans and whines, and it’s just the two of them, the world gone to haze around them. Simplicity at its finest, two close friends fucking. He falls against the bard as he cums, spilling onto the man’s back, claiming him as he sighs. If only it wasn’t Jaskier he was claiming, if only it was,  _ “Yen,” _ underneath him and with the thought, he stills, spilling over the small of his bard’s back.

He realizes he’s said her name aloud when the happy scent of chamomile permeating from the bard turns so bitter that Geralt can taste it in the back of his mouth. The bitter smell is a combination of so many other scents, so many other emotions that the witcher’s senses are overwhelmed.

He slips out of the room wordlessly, shame coating his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎶 Iiiii have no sellllff controooollll! 🎶 
> 
> Lemme know what you thought about this chapter, 'm curious about how your guys' perceptions of geralt might've/might not have changed! 
> 
> Title from "No Shame" by 5 Seconds of Summer. 
> 
> Also can i just say: you guys and your comments MAKE MY DAY, the comments i've received on the last chapter (and the ones on previous chapters, too) made me go "ahhhh i love you guys." I'm giddy knowing what you guys think and to know you're enjoying this fic makes me so happy. <33 love you all


	5. All the lights couldn’t put out the dark (runnin' through my heart)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[[SPOILERS/WARNING]]]]]] jaskier rubs his skin raw in frustration (could be triggering in regards self harm but i do not intend that way for jaskier but could be triggering nonetheless) happens in second chapter and scratches of the action mentioned in fifth chapter (excluding one-line chaptes)

Jask submerges himself into the bath, steaming hot water turning his skin bright pink as he holds his breath under it and looks up at the ceiling. He feels empty, his chest void of heartbeat, of air, eyes unblinking and not a part of him moves, twitches. It’s blissful. He feels free of his memories, as if he’s left his body and left all the confusion and abject hurt behind in his physical body, his soul floating in the water, existing and nonexisting all at once.

Minutes later, he rushes back to life in a chaos of splashes and wet gasps as his lungs fight to fill themselves, water dripping from his hair into the tub as his chest heaves. He grasps the soap, scrubbing at his skin till the flush of warm water turns into an angry red, his frustration and confusion evident in the vigorous scrubbing of his skin.

He wants to be rid of it, his pain, his love, his heart, he wants it _gone_ because it hurts far too much for him to handle. He falls against the wall of the bath, a wet sob escaping his lips and he feels as if he’s choking, though he’s above the water now.

He’s loved him for a _hundred_ _years_. 

It certainly fucking feels like it, at least.

Jaskier had been so young when he’d met the witcher, what had _happened_ to him? He feels like the shell of the man he used to be. It annoys him to no end that he’s incapable of loving as freely as he’d once been able to, ruined for the world with his longing for a man that treated him like _scum._ Numbness turns into sadness and into anger and all Jaskier can do is sit and feel and wish he was underwater again, existing and nonexisting all at once instead of feeling oh _so much_ it makes his head spin.

He’d thought that Geralt had kissed him because he’d wanted him. Thought that he wanted to finally give Jaskier what he’s been asking for for _years_. Love is a curse, Jasksier finds himself thinking as he stands, bruises aching, skin scratched red. Love is a curse and he never wants to feel it again. He dresses; there’s a soft knock at the door as he buttons his doublet, all the way to the base of his neck, feeling unlike himself, feeling too exposed and too raw. He opens the door.

Geralt. 

Jaskier’s anger flares as the man doesn’t bother to even look at him, staring at his feet but the traitorous love that swells in his chests at seeing the man come back to him— oh does he hate himself for feeling it. “You were right. Kikimore. Hurry up.” Apparently, neither of them feel like themselves because Geralt is inviting him to a _hunt_ ? Jaskier wants to speak, to say _something,_ but words get stuck in his throat as he looks at Geralt, remembers his body pressed against his own, his hands, his _strength._ He feels fear stir in his chest as his body stiffens and he takes an instinctive step back. He plays it off by going to get Geralt’s bag of potions and quietly locks the door, handing the bag to his friend.

As they walk downstairs, he isn’t sure if Geralt notices the absence of his songbook and his lute. Jaskier feels devoid of interest, and composing an epic of adventure and action in Geralt’s name is the last thing he wants to do right now.

The air is deathly still as they make their way towards the forest, where mucky ground soon gives away into swampland. It nearly feels foreboding, but the bard isn’t sure what it could possibly forebode; he feels as if everything’s gone to shit already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter wasn't too boring! Part one of a two-part chapter (they were simply too long to post together lol). Also you guys are literally so delightful, I adore knowing we're all on this angst train together <3 
> 
> Title from "Lights Up" by Harry Styles and the "He’s loved him for a hundred years./It certainly fucking feels like it, at least." is a modified line a verse from "Marbles" by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> Lemme know what you thought!


	6. Fight so dirty (but you love so sweet)

Jaskier flinches awake and realizes he’s moving, though his legs feel numb and are nowhere near the ground. “Geralt?” There’s a grunt from somewhere above him; all he can see now is the forest floor and a heavily-muscled back. “Why am I floating upside down?” He’s only met with another grunt. He twists, trying to right himself but the arm that holds him down only tightens around him further. “Geralt?” He’s ignored, even though he’s sure the witcher can hear his heart race. “Fuck,  _ fuck, _ let me down, you absolute—” he tries to kick with a leg, his hands hitting the witcher’s back wherever he can reach.

“Geralt!” He suspects he’s only set down because the witcher can hear the panic in his voice but as soon as his feet find solid ground, the rest of his body pitches forward as if it too wants to make acquaintance with the forest floor. Luckily, he’s met with strong hands, one sliding over his waist and the other against the tree the bard’s leans against so that Jaskier doesn’t fall sideways as he shifts his weight onto his uninjured leg. He swallows, wanting to lean in, he’s  _ so _ close, his lips right there— “You hit your head, wound on your right leg, told you to stay back.” Jaskier nods. Of course, it had been his fault, always getting into trouble left and right. Duly, he wonders if Geralt’s forgotten what complete sentences are.

“Right. I guess I’ll need a healer, then.” He realizes that it isn’t just a simple wound on his leg, but a gash from his hip, trailing down to the lower part of his thigh, his trousers leg cut off hastily. He sighs, grieving the loss of his breeches and dreading the walk back town in his sorry state. An arm slips over his arse and he finds himself being lifted up again, shock coursing through him along with a healthy amount of arousal but the fear—well that was new. He realizes with a sinking stomach that he doesn’t trust Geralt as he used to, not after he’s simply taken Jaskier. He shudders, struggling to get away again. “I can walk, you know, I’m not some silly lamb that needs taking care of,” he mumbles.

~~

It turns out, he does need taking care of. His knees buckle in pain soon after his first step and he’s thrown over Geralt’s shoulder again. When they reach the clearing they’ve left Roach at, the witcher sews the wound shut, packs it with poultice, and wraps it with bandages with gentle hands (if Jaskier had the creativity right now he’d say Geralt was touching him in a rather caring manner) as Jaskier swears colorfully. He’s then carefully set on Roach as Geralt leads the way back to town, forgoing the healer for now and praying Melitele a healing without infection. By the time the sun sets, the two of them are in bed, both coin decently full, a hearty meal in their stomachs. Jaskier is too exhausted to feel the numbness of his emotions and cuddles back into his witcher’s chest, settling in for a night of comfort, a night of pretending.

  
Jaskier doesn’t sleep for shit that night as Geralt’s leg nudges between his own and his arm is thrown over the bard’s waist. They set off on the path next morning and if the bard’s voice is replaced by early morning songbirds and Geralt’s glances at Jaskier are filled with annoyance rather than carefully cultivated indifference, well, neither of them say a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part (so it's a lil short and a stub of a chapter sorries) of the previous chapter; felt incomplete without posting it today <3 
> 
> title from "Teeth" by 5SOS. 
> 
> your comments make my day, guys, you're all so lovely <3


	7. I know you're colorblind (I watched the world fall from your eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]]]: jaskier smells o f fear when gerlat doesnt set him down jaskiers kinda held up against a tree (so he doesnt fall because his leg is injured))

The idea of Jaskier smelling of fear is so foreign that Gerlt does not understand where the scent is coming from. There’s no one around and surely, his companion, who hadn’t shown fear even when the witcher had punched him so cruelly on their first day together, couldn’t be the source of such scent. But as Jaskier takes a step back, his heart beating louder, quicker, Geralt realizes it is him who emits the emotion. The realization that the only human who’d never even been hesitant around the witcher is afraid of Geralt now—it sends him reeling. He bites his tongue and wordlessly takes the potions bag outstretched from the bard’s arm, and hopes that this sad attempt of apologizing disguised as an invitation to shadow a hunt will revert their relationship back to normal.

Things are awkward between them as they head towards the swamp. Jaskier is empty-handed save for the occasional picking at his own nails. It’s a nervous habit and something cold stirs in the bottom of his stomach when Geralt realizes that his bard is being silent. Not a hum or a mutter of lyrics or even the unrelenting questions about the hunt that the witcher usually ignores. He doesn’t even have his composition book to take notes and jot inspiration down on and it puts Geralt on edge at how un-Jaskier-like his bard is behaving—he’s sure even a doppler would be better at playing Jaskier than the bard right now. With a sense of dread, he realizes that simply inviting Jaskier to a hunt won’t be enough of an olive branch and finds himself still with the thought that, in his attempt to make the bard feel better and lighten his misery andanger, he’s ruined him past saving, past fixing.

~~ 

The kikimore puts up more of a vicious fight than Geralt would have preferred and Geralt has very high standards of what a vicious fight is. Its legs move this way and that as it screeches, swamp mud dripping off it and into the witcher’s eyes as he attacks. He ducks and stabs its underbelly and it lashes out in pain but the wound is not nearly deep enough to slow it, much less kill it, and only proves to further enrage it. His skin feels too tight—this is taking too long and something is going to go horribly wro—”Hey, hideous!” Fuck. He duly wonders if it’s possible to jinx things by simply thinking them. He hears an object, a rock presumably, whistle through the air and bounce off the kikimore uselessly. “What’s your secret to looking so revolting! You beat your head against a tree for a beauty routine or is that all your mother gave you?” The kikimore’s attention shifts with a roar to the suicidal fucking bard and with it diverted, Geralt runs up to stab it clean through, dragging his sword through its body to fell it. It gives one last angry swipe before it falls to the earth to slowly sink into the swampwater.

He finds the bard unconscious, having hit his head when the kikimore swiped at his leg; it bleeds idly into the ground. Fuck. 

~~

He tightens his arm around Jaskier’s legs as the man struggles in his grasp and there. The rancid scent of fear so soft but sours Jaskier’s scent so that it’s heavily noticeable. Then the bard hits at him, as uselessly as the rock had hit the kikimore, but Geralt sets him down nonetheless, holding him steadily against a tree to keep the man from tipping forward again. The touch is quite nice, actually. Jaskier’s not curved like women are, but he’s soft nonetheless and Geralt finds himself wanting to touch more, to lean in and—he shakes his head minutely as the thoughts fill his mind. He doesn’t want Jaskier, he’ll never want an annoying, silly little bard who smiles like a fool and is filled with too much joy—he has a powerful sorceress he’s wooing and he’s in no need of romance from Jaskier of all people, for Melitele’s sake.

Just because Geralt doesn't need Jaskier's romance doesn't mean the man doesn't care for his friend. He looks down at the man’s leg, glancing at the blood that trickles down, swallowing guilt as he realizes that it’s his own fault that Jaskier’s in this state. “You hit your head, wound on your right leg, told you to stay back.” Jaskier sighs and Geralt shifts, lifting him up onto his arm and carrying the wounded man a few steps before he’s smacked and told to set his bard down but soon carries him as Jaskier sits in his arms with a resigned sigh and nothing else. 

Resigned. Is that what Geralt’s made his bright Jaskier? Resigned? Quiet? His head hangs in despair as they walk towards town, Jaskier sat on Roach after the witcher patches up his wound.

~~

Geralt visits the alderman before buying dinner for the both of them. He carries Jaskier up the stairs, one hand under his knees, the other supporting the bard’s shoulders and carefully sets him down on the bed, wiping himself down with water from a bucket in the corner of the room before he strips both of them down to their smallclothes, his breath catches in his throat as he takes in Jaskier’s mottled skin. He’s covered in bruises and Geralt is riddled with guilt and regret fills his chest as he rests at the edge of the bed, shame rising as he can’t help but feel satisfied, some primal part of him happy that the bard is marked as his, a feeling he doesn’t understand

Half-asleep, the witcher intertwines his body with Jaskier’s, his arm slung over the man’s hip, his palm against the bard’s chest to keep him close, and Geralt’s leg between the man’s own, cautious of his injuries. He falls into a content rest after the stress of the day and the heat of his bard held so close to him comforts his nightmares.

~~

They return to the path the next morning after a breakfast Jaskier barely touches. The man looks like death in the early morning light, deep circles under his eyes, his skin pale. His neck is exposed to the room, serving as a reminder of what Geralt had done to his bard in attempt to fix, in attempt to find relief and it serves to throw back in his face how not simple two very close friends fucking is. 

Roach walks slowly alongside Jaskier, who limps, refusing to ride her. The songbirds sing their songs as his own lark remains silent and Geralt glances at him with worry as they journey on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am evidently incapable at posting at a reasonable time, considering that it's nearly 2:30 am as i write this. this is a chapter that ties this scene in together and answers some questions while giving insight on what geralt's feeling.
> 
> hope this fic's living up to expectations, it started out as a simple concept and spiraled into more so im nervous to know what you guys think of that and what you thought of the chapter<3 i love hearing from you guys, it's delightful. 
> 
> title from "Lover of Mine" by 5SOS.


	8. It’s so hard to blame you (‘cause you’re so damn beautiful)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[[[SPOILERS/WARNING]]]]] Jask (and town) have sex curse placed upon them where they'll burn to death if they dont have sex

It’s a few months later that they encounter Yennefer again.

Geralt’s irritation-filled sidelong glances have finally become fewer in occurrence and Jaskier hopes it means that the witcher will continue to allow him to travel alongside with him rather than ditch him without warning. There’s a contract—apparently, some witch had taken over the town’s mayor, laying destruction to the town’s trade and politics in her wake. Of course, Geralt, who swears not to get involved in the matters of humankind, gets involved.

Jaskier chatters as they make their way towards the mayor’s villa and barely flinches when his friend knocks a man out with his coin bag, a low whistle escaping his lips as he glances at the now-passed out greedy fucker. Jaskier’s back to himself, composing, chattering, singing his songs and bringing merry to wherever he goes; it had taken the bard a couple nights of nightmares and others of hidden anger and hurt to begin warming himself up to the witcher again. He’s sure Geralt could smell the turbulent emotions on him, they’d both ignored it, hoping time would take Jaskier’s pain away. It hasn’t, but he’s put it behind him.

~~ 

She looks grand, strung up in lace and leather, lips painted red and her eyes lined with kohl. If Jaskier was a different man, he would have surely been interested in her. He had been, actually, when they’d first met, though he’d found the sorceress terrifying. But any reverence he’d had for Yennefer had dissipated when he’d seen her greed nearly destroy her and the jealousy that Jaskier had felt when Geralt had instantly grown fond of her, though she nearly killed them both, didn’t help her case.

Bodies move around them as they walk in, though there’s a clear pathway that leads to Yenn, who sits on an ornate armchair, leaving no doubt of who was commanding the room. The air is mess of sex and lust and Jaskier finds himself under the spell, his skin growing uncomfortably warm as he tries to defy it. He hisses as smoke rises from his arm, his skin giving way to burns and is then quickly pulled by the collar into the mass of writhing bodies by some unknown hand, the burn smoothing away into nothing as a man kisses him languidly, stripping him slowly as he does so. He finds himself undressed, moaning into the man’s mouth as he loosely fists at Jaskier’s cock, his hand slick with oil while the other rests on the bard’s hip.

Though he can’t pull away, considering the spell would burn him till he was a dead man, he positions them so he can see Geralt, who stares back at him with an expression the bard can’t read. Someone comes up behind him and Jaskier is pressed between the two people, someone fingering his arse, loosening him up while they use their other hand to play with his nipples, drawing a breathless moan out of him as his eyes flutter and his lips part against the man kissing him. He feels loved, the touches soft, though it’s nothing but lust, nothing but a curse on a town that that _witch_ placed upon them. 

Jaskier watches as Geralt turns away, his features twisting as if he’s smelt something rancid, seen something that’s disgusted him and the bard belatedly realizes that his friend’s reaction is directed at his body. He hates himself for the tears that gather in the corner of his eyes as humiliation burns through him and turns his head away to capture the man pressed up behind him into a kiss, fighting away the memories the action brings.

He can’t help the slow moan that escapes his parted lips as a cock pushes into him, fucking him without hurry, as if they have all the time in the world at their disposal, the man in front of him now on his knees, sucking Jaskier’s cock in time with slow thrusts of the man behind the bard. He hates how much he loves it and turns his eyes back to Geralt, who fucks into Yen at a much more rapid pace than the rest of the room, and Jaskier finds himself pretending its him who he’s fucking into, and not her. He spills into the stranger’s mouth as his witcher stills, buried inside Yennefer. Jaskier’s still being fucked into and is so fucking sensitive but pays it no mind, heart in his throat as Geralt converses with Yenn, the two of them shoulder-to-shoulder in a comfortable company that makes him _yearn_ so much, he aches with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter guys :) hopefully the timeline isnt too confusing; the djinn incident happened years ago in this verse—lemme know if you guys need clarification on that <3 this chapter has nothing to do with Mr Djinny djinn djinn.
> 
> Lemme know what you guys thought! this scene spans a couple more chapters but the boys are finally Feeling!
> 
> Title from "Easier" by 5SOS.
> 
> Also, do you guys think I should tag this fic as a slowburn? I kinda feel like it is but idk.


	9. I’ll die and save you (when you fall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]]] jaskier feels like he doesn't want to have sex with geralt again but does so nonetheless because he can't watch his friend be so sad

His arse is still slick with oil when the spell is broken. The crowd dissipates quickly and Jaskier finds himself redressing in a hurry as Geralt makes his way over to the exit, Yennefer long gone. “You alright?” He asks, splaying a smile, “I must admit, that was quite lovely, those men had the  _ softest  _ hands, I really should ask what they use for a hand cream—” He’s cut off when Geralt turn to him and tugs at his just-donned shirt, slipping the doublet off his shoulders. He doesn’t want this, _ he can’t do this _ —he undoes his own breeches and smallclothes before working on Geralt’s clothes as he guides them to a now-abandoned sofa. The witcher looks away from him as they undress and sit next to each other as still air surrounds them.

Jaskier sighs. “Close your eyes,” he whispers. Slowly, he leans forward, pressing his lips against Geralt's in a soft brush before cupping his cheek as he deepens the kiss. He knows he doesn’t smell of lilac and gooseberries, that he does not have hair long and perfect. He knows he’s the wrong shape, has the wrong parts, but he can try, at least. He can’t stand the look of devastation on Geralt’s usually-inexpressive face and he’ll ask what caused it later, around a campfire far away from this place, where they’ll pretend they’d never touched and Geralt will pretend he didn’t hear him.

For now, Jaskier slowly leans back, Geralt mimicking the movement, unwilling to separate their lips from each other as the bard quietly tips a bottle of oil that’s been left around onto his palm. They righten, and he stokes the witcher’s cock, their lips still on their unhurried rhythm. He knows this is what Geralt wants with Yenn, uncomplicated softness, fondness, and for now, Jaskier can provide enough of an illusion to take the edge of the craving off.

His own cock lies half-hard against his thigh as he guides them back, laying down on the loveseat as Geralt follows him, hovering above Jaskier by supporting himself on his elbow. The other hand’s thumb is hooked into Jaskier’s mouth as he rocks into him with gentleness Jaskier has never seen from him. He gently runs his thumb over Jaskier’s lips, smearing them with the man’s own spit, and the bard’s chest aches as he keeps in his soft moans. He’s kissing him again, large fingers intertwined in the bard’s short hair, breathing against his lips as they take their time, Geralt in his dreams and Jaskier in the best nightmare he’s ever had.

He arcs his back and bites harshly down on his lips, arms going to grip Geralt’s shoulders as the witcher angles his hips just right, barely muffling the sound in time to prevent breaking the illusion. Jaskier’s chest heaves as the witcher’s eyes flutter at the scent of blood and the suddenness of the movement. The bard splays his palms over Geralt’s cheeks, rubbing his thumbs against his cheekbones in comfort, letting him know that it’s okay, that they’re okay and that he can continue pretending.

They rock together in silence for a while as the witcher kisses down Jaskier’s throat, across his shoulder while the bard lovingly trails his fingers down Geralt’s back, down his sides. Soon, Geralt spills inside him with a soft groan, still fucking into Jaskier through his orgasm. He’s beautiful and Jaskier aches for him to open his eyes, to know the way they look when Geralt peaks in pleasure. Instead, he inches towards the edge of the ornate couch and lets his witcher fall into the space between the backrest and the bard before he wraps his arms around the witcher, holding him as they both doze off into sleep, his dreams filled with amber eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Two chapters in a day, though they're both painfully short xD This is kinda part two of the previous chapter. Lemme know what you thought of these two dumbasses here! 
> 
> Title's modified line from "Battle Cries" by The Amazing Devil.


	10. Let not them hear the mutterings of all your fears (the fluttering of all your wings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] non-consensual orgy scene and also geralt uses jask to pretend he's fucking yenn.

They’re met with a contract nearly as soon as they step foot in the town. A group of people approach him, and rather than reeking of fear, they smell of desperation and loss. Geralt muses that one day, he’ll learn not to meddle in the affairs of humans, that one day, his heart will be strong enough to resist the young man that pleads with him to return his husband, and all the other townsfolk who miss their wives and spouses and siblings. One day, he won’t be such a weak fool. One day, but not today, it seems. He takes the coin and sets off with Roach, careful not to leave Jaskier behind.

Lately, the bard has been… fragile. Geralt can see it in the way Jaskier scrambles when they pack up camp, in the way he inquires where the witcher is going whenever he’s about to leave the man’s sight. He thinks that Jaskier looks rather sad when he thinks Geralt can’t see him, and even if Geralt can’t see him, he can certainly smell the thick air of rotting, waterlogged plants that surrounds him. So he’s been more careful with his bard, toning down the jabs he takes at him, being careful to avoid hurting him. 

He insists Jaskier ride with him to the villa, citing that they’ll only be slowed down if Jaskier takes to by foot but in reality, Geralt knows the blisters that line his friend’s feet and the deep ache in the man’s bones—they had both been looking forward to rest at the tavern but the townsfolk’s issues had taken greater importance.

~~

He can smell her before they even enter the gates of the villa, lilac and gooseberries carried by the soft breeze of the evening, the scent of sex thick in the air just behind it. He can hear them, the moans, the pants, the skin against skin and half wants to turn away, not having the energy to deal with the situation. But, they’re here already; the townsfolk need their issue fixed and the witcher doubts they’ll be greeted with open arms back at the tavern if they go back without having solved it.

Geralt swings the coin pouch up the man’s face, knocking him out cold. He’s rather satisfied to hear Jaskier’s low whistle behind him, the scent of fear that had made his stomach feel achingly cold only recently lessened, though not completely gone. It had taken so long for Jaskier to return to his comfortable chatter, even longer to return to his thoughtless touching of Geralt that the witcher had worried he’d never have his bard back, that he’d lost him forever in the desperation that he’d felt on that horrid morning months ago.

He ties Roach to a tree, petting her down and promising her a proper stable and top-notch treats as soon as he finishes the contract, and walks into the villa, Jaskier trailing behind him. 

~~ 

The smell of magic and sex is nearly enough to drown out the scent of charring skin. He only notices that Jaskier’s under the spell when a man drags his bard into the masses by the collar, kissing him without a care in the world. Geralt watches as he’s undressed, and notes with displeasure that the bruises that had marked Jaskier as his own are no longer there, unseen by the man who fists his bard’s cock slowly. Though he doesn’t have any right, any claim over Jaskier, the witcher feels his face twist in jealous anger, even more eager to meet with Yennefer and get this ordeal done with.

He walks up to her, only to be met with uninterested lavender eyes, shining with boredom as she tortures, wanting for something she can never have. “Yenn, stop this.” She only stands to meet him, lips parted as she looks up at him. “No,” she whispers against his lips, pulling him into a kiss.

Her trousers are quickly unbuttoned and pulled down and Geralat’s cock is worked out of his leather breeches, stroked to hardness as they kiss. She leans over the armchair, her back against the seat of the couch and her legs angled up and around the witcher’s hips to drag him closer. “Gods, Yenn,” he mumbles, pushing into her slowly, “you can’t keep doing this” they kept telling each other that but they both knew it landed on deaf ears.

She’s surrounded by power, her eyes alight with some sort of mild madness now, and her body’s warm as he fucks into her, much faster than the rest of the room. She won’t give it to him, the sensual rhythm of sex he desperately craves, because they both know it’s not the  _ taking things slow _ Geralt wants, it’s the intimacy. With intimacy comes vulnerability and love and Yenn will never give him that.

He stills as he spills into her, her own breath coming in short pants, her shirt rucked up around her waist in the awkward angle. This act of sex wasn’t about pleasure, just a desperate mimicry of coupling to bear child. He sighs as he tucks himself back in and sits down on the floor, and soon, she joins him. “You need to let them go. The fact that you cannot bear child is not a reason to keep these people here.” She looks up at him and for a moment, he sees the desperation he’s seen often in his own eyes in hers. He closes his eyes and kisses her softly, a gentle brush of their lips.

She pulls away from him, and by the time he opens his eyes, she’s gone, and the now-disgruntled crowd makes its way towards their homes. Geralt takes a deep breath of her fading scent, feeling the weight of their relationship wear on him as he sighs, his head in his hands. He takes a moment to feel, to breathe, before standing and walking towards the exit.

Jaskier joins him, a bright smile on his face, no doubt delighted by the attention he’s received because what are bards but whores with pretty voices. He sighs. That’s not quite fair, he knows, but he’s so tired, of Yennefer, of his stupid emotions. Geralt doesn’t bother with a reply when Jaskier asks after his well-being and barely listens as the bard yaps on. They’re nearly out the door when he begins tugging at Jaskier’s clothes. He’s not sure it’s a conscious decision, Geralt needs something and Jaskier would give him  _ anything _ if he only asked. This is a question, the pulling his shirt from where it's tucked into his breeches, the slipping the doublet off his shoulders. He asks.

And Jaskier, beautiful Jaskier, his beautiful, sacrificial lark, says  _ yes. _

~~

It’s everything Geralt’s wanted. With his eyes closed and his memory so sharp, he can  _ feel _ Yennefer beneath him, pliant, wanting, radiating trust and the love she’d kept fighting, though it’s a pained, hurt, scent he smells mixed with chamomile equally strong instead of the lilac and gooseberries. He can feel her eyes on him, nonetheless, soft with adoration and the witcher yearns to open his own and look down into the beautiful violet, knowing he can’t or he’d lost it all. The sharp scent of blood and the jerk of the body beneath him nearly causes his illusion to end but soft hands with calloused fingertips smooth over Geralt’s cheekbones, palms warm as he’s told that he’s okay. That they’re okay.

Eventually, he spills inside the body beneath him and collapses beside it, held by the body as it radiates comfort. As he dozes, Geralt’s dreams of cornflower blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told myself that I could post another chapter if I wrote another chapter! I'm currently working on chapter 17? Haven't edited/proofread anything past this chapter so i'll have to see to that soon, probably tomorrow.
> 
> Lemme tell you guys, this was /not/ supposed to be such a long, multi-chaptered fic. I'm legit like—??? who let me do this? how did his happen? ??? but you guys seem to be enjoying it and i'm def having fun so who cares! I have a rough like, idea/plan of main events imagined up and yeah more chapters but also more angst and comfort so who's counting (seriously tho, sorry for making you guys read so much im horrible at being concise in my stories, apparently, and my ideas just keep going but there is an ending ive planned i swear). 
> 
> anyways! title from "The Horror and the Wild" by The Amazing Devil, an absolutely banging song. Let me know what you guys thought of the chapter—also, I fucking love your guys' comments, they help me consider aspects of my story i've never thought of before and your encouragement keeps me writing <33 if you guys dont wanna write something out but wanna show appreciation, feel free to leave extra kudos/love in the form of heart emojis or these <3 lovely things. 
> 
> also, if you read all this ranting *air high five* you're fucking awesome


	11. You’ll win, it’s just a trick (and this is it, so I’m sorry)

Jaskier wakes with Geralt still curled up in his arms. The bastard’s beautiful, the weight that plagues him is gone and his face is relaxed. Like this, the witcher almost looks god-like, morning light reflecting off of bone-white— _bone-white_ , he’ll have to use that in a song sometime—hair, painting him with an ethereal glow. He looks satisfied, content almost and the bard finds his heart in his throat as Geralt _snuggles closer_ , his head neatly resting atop Jaskier’s chest. It makes it so incredibly hard to resist placing a soft peck to the witcher’s forehead, and even harder for Jaskier to pull away completely. He resolves himself, half-pinned under Geralt, to an awkward morning, knowing there’s no way he’ll get away from underneath the witcher without waking him. They’re still unclothed but Geralt is so warm and the sofa so soft that the only discomfort Jasksier feels is his arm, which is numbing at an alarming rate. Nonetheless, he strokes down Geralt’s hair, rubbing his fingers through the fine strands as he hums a lullaby, enjoying the intimacy of the moment. 

He stiffens as he feels the man beside him move and freezes, his hands still intertwined in Geralt’s hair. “Your hair’s a tangled mess, Geralt, how you’ve still got sticks in is beside me, I thought I combed it out just the other day—” And fuck. Fuck, the _look_ in Geralt’s eyes. They glow in the bright sunlight, and stare into Jaskier’s own, wordless as they search for _something_. “Sorry,” he mumbles, starting to shift away, only for Geralt to tighten the grip around his waist, hold him there, hold him close.

He feels panic seep into his chest, eyes wide as his heat races. Is he going to want to go again? Jaskier _can’t_ , but this situation they’re in right now has proven to him that it doesn't matter to the bard what he himself wants, just what he can give to Geralt. Nonetheless, his muscles freeze with a horror he can't pin to a source, afraid both of this newfound fear and not understanding where it comes from and the fact that, even worse, the fear is somehow related to Geralt touching him and holding him down.

He doesn’t quite understand what’s happening as Geralt leans up to kiss him, his head tilted, eyes open before slipping closed and Jaskier fucking _scrambles_ to get away. He can handle illusions, he can handle lies, but the bard can’t take being led on, apparently. It would be too much, he knows he wouldn’t survive Geralt loving _him_ just because he wants to love _someone_ since Yennefer doesn’t love him back. Jaskier falls off the sofa with a thud and an oof, quickly redressing, “Poor Roach, we’ve left our mighty mare out all night, oh as if she doesn’t hate me enough—” he nearly trips as he half-runs to leave accursed building, trying to protect what’s left of his too-fast heart.

~~

They walk back to the town, Roach in between them as Jaskier’s brain won’t stop fucking thinking and his lips won’t stop moving in attempt to fill the awkward silence in between them. He can’t keep his mind off the kiss, off of how close he’d been, the look in Geralt’s eyes that had made it seem like the man had actually wanted him, liquid gold so tempting that Jaskier had nearly given in. He ignores the slight panic that still plagues him, chalking it up to that _Geralt had nearly kissed him_ and the emotions that come with your best friend/unrequited love for twenty years _nearly kissing_ you.

They make it back to the tavern by sundown, and the bard picks up his lute, giving it a good strum before he puts on a face and peacocks himself around the room. The tavern’s full, families have been returned and Jaskier winks as he sees the young man in the background kiss his husband as the bard launches into _Toss A Coin_ and whistles and cheers rise up as few venture to pat Geralt’s shoulder (to be met with a scowl, of course, but the merrymakers only laugh and sing lounder).

~~

That night, Jaskier finds a pretty man, muscles nearly large enough to match Geralt’s and with enough interest to fill his time and sinks into his rooms, leaving Geralt with but a word of _don’t wait up_ and a wink, ready to forget about the morning’s intimacies in turn for some roughhousing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy folks! I think many of you will be glad to know that I just finished writing another chapter and !! Jaskier leaves. I'm not sure what's going to happen after that, either geralt will catch up to him soon or he won't for a couple years; either way, it's time for jask to heal!
> 
> I know it hurts right now, I hear you all, and I know Geralt is being a big dumb, and they're all a wreck, but they're going to sort themselves out, learn what it means to be in a relationship, what it means to trust, and especially what fucking consent is. In a couple chapters, Jaskier's going to find his braincell (ik this because i wrote it ;)), and so is geralt, though in a different way.  
> Thank you for sticking with this <3 I know you're all hurting and I'm sorry, I feel your pain and anger and it's the greatest compliment to my writing that it's causing you all so much feeling.
> 
> I wasn't sure if i'd be able to give this fic the ending it deserves, with the depth it calls for, but I'm reassured, especially since i'm writing the beginning of the end (which, i feel like is also not going to be a very short end, if that makes sense, they have lots of healing and talking to do.)  
> Unfortunately for you all, you're still in the thicket of the angst, things start fitting in and start getting better around chapter fifteen so just hang on a little longer.
> 
> This chapter hints at geralt beginning to realize a couple things, not enough to use his words, but in his actions, kinda.
> 
> Chapter title from "To Be So Lonely" by Harry Styles.
> 
> I love hearing from you all, as always; I'll catch up on responding to your lovely thoughts soon :D


	12. I find myself so far from you (I find myself all alone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] jask is scared when geralt tries to kiss him, and even more scared when geralt tries to hold him closer, tighter.

Geralt feels sunshine, soft light warm on his face. Now that he thinks about it, he’s rather comfy, more comfortable than he’s been in… years. If ever, if he’s being honest. His arm’s slung over a soft waist, and hair tickles at the sensitive skin of his forearm and the underside of his wrist. Absentmindedly, he runs his fingers through it—it’s rather soft, as if its owner takes special care of it; he chuckles. Of _course_ he takes care of it, vanity of such importance to him. 

He can feel fingers in his hair, rubbing at his scalp, gentle, soft, and Geralt knows he wouldn’t mind if this was the only moment he got to live for the rest of his long life. He cuddles closer to the body, still half-asleep as he rests his head on its shoulder, nearly on its chest. He feels the body stiffen beneath him, mumble excuses and he’s forced to reluctantly open his eyes. Jaskier’s blue, intense in the soft light, stare back down at him.

He wraps his arms tighter around his bard as he tries to scramble away, his nose twitching. Jaskier so suddenly smells of panic and fear that the witcher wants to hold him closer, to protect him from all he fears. “Jaskier,” he mumbles, his eyebrows creasing as he looks up at him, his lips parted, soft pants of breath escaping them. He looks soft. So soft that Geralt can’t help but want to just let his eyes slip close, tilt his head—and all of a sudden, Jaskier’s on the floor, blabbering about Roach, half-running away, half-tripping as he redresses. 

Geralt sits up after he leaves, running his fingers through his hair to push it away from his face. He’d nearly fucking kissed _Jaskier._ Had the curse lingered? Rubbed off on the witcher in some way? The scent of magic was long gone, giving into the smell of dust and traces of Jaskier’s panic—and why had Jaskier been so panicked? He’d think that the bard would’ve enjoyed the cuddling, especially since he touches Geralt so constantly, so naturally.

He still can’t figure out what had made him tilt up and go to kiss him, though. Had Geralt had longed for Yenn so much that he’d wanted to kiss _Jaskier_?

But he hadn’t thought of her, not once, not when he’d felt the thicket of hair under his arm, not when he’d looked into those ocean eyes.

He redresses quickly, his mind a mess. A distracted witcher is just as dead as a slow one. This had to stop, he’s filled with confusion and it’s too much. Too much to think about, too much to handle.

~~

As they leave town that morning, the sound of Jaskier’s cries and moans from the previous night still echo in Geralt’s ears, even as the goodbyes and thanks from the town fill the air. He watches as a man, the one who’d begged Geralt to bring his husband back, wraps his arm around another man’s waist, presumably his husband. The witcher finds himself with an odd longing tugging at his stomach as he kisses the other man’s cheek harshly before turning cheering and waving, seeing the witcher and his bard off as the rest of the town does the same.

He glances at his bard, who grins wildly as they walk away, looking up at Geralt with such glee. “Oh, they indeed will make a wonderful song, a separated young love, filled with longing and a happy ending, too! It’s sure to stir up the spirits of the masses.” His fingers already dance over his lute, working on the beginning chords of _Toss A Coin_ with focus, elated at the cheers of the townsfolk, no doubt taking pride in his music’s ability to transform the view of the common folk of witchers.

Geralt rolls his eyes and stirs Roach into a canter so the bard nearly trips over himself in an attempt to catch up. “Hey! Fuckin—Geralt! Fine, I’ll shut up!” The witcher slows down at that but the rest of the evening is everything but silent as Jaskier loses himself to composing his newest tale of heartbreak and romance.

~~

They make camp at sunset, more for Jaskier’s sake than anyone else’s, as it’s been for years. The bard scribbles in his notebook and Geralt smiles to himself in the light of the campfire, satisfied with the reminder that his bard isn’t broken. The way the stench of panic and _horror_ that he’d smelt from the man this morning is nearly gone and, with it, Geralt hopes (assumes) that what had caused it had gone, too. He doesn’t understand, still, why he’d itched to kiss him. This is all so fucked up, he’s not sure what to feel nor does he know what he’s feeling. 

Soon, Jaskier looks up, victory bright in his eyes as the inspiration that’s swarmed him is finally put into words. He fiddles around with his lute, making sure it’s tuned properly (it always is) before grinning up at Geralt. “Now, I know it’s not my best and still requires quite a lot of work but—” he takes a soft breath before positioning his fingers over the fretboard of his instrument, his voice easing out a tale of separated lovers. 

_This much you should already know,_

_In love with you I will forever stay_

_It is my heart you hold_

_To caress or to crush_

_Often I send my love to you_

_I wish upon a falling star_

_My love for you is endless,_

_Even though_

_I must love you from afar_

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat as he watches his bard perform for him. It’s much more of a love letter than a song, he feels like, and though he knows it isn’t addressed to him, the witcher, oddly enough, aches for it to be. He snaps himself out of his ridiculous thinking, reminding himself that Yennefer is the only one that’ll ever want for him, and no one will ever want for him in the way he aches to be wanted, the way he aches to be loved. He continues to listen to Jaskier’s stupid song.

_Often I dream about you and_

_The countless time we have shared_

_I am forever thankful for your love,_

_Thankful for the way you always cared_

_Too often I dream about you_

_A future that one day we will see_

_Waiting for that special day,_

_That for now, is just a fantasy._

A fantasy. No, what it was is a terrible song.

He only grunts out, "It doesn't rhyme," when Jasksier asks what he thinks of it when the last chord fades out and climbs into the bedroll, ignoring the _emotions_ that damned song’s brought up in him, his heart howling to be wanted in the way the protagonist of the song wants their lover. Stupid bards and their stupid fucking music and their stupid fucking songs. Jaskier sighs, the glow gone from his eyes and tucks himself into his bedroll after carefully tending to his lute and giving Roach a goodnight kiss.

Jealous of Roach for a reason the witcher can’t quite pinpoint, he falls into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's *dance dance dance* Geralt's Pov *dance dance* that a couple of you guys asked for; i am easily persuaded *dance*
> 
> Title and poem from "Separated Lovers" by Jara Son of Ahaz. Btw, loving your guys' comments and love you all <33
> 
> Also very sorry to Mr Jara Son of Ahaz for calling his poem trash, I rather enjoyed it, Geralt just has no taste.


	13. Let me inside (wish I could get to know you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] Geralt doesn't ask for consent but no like, forcing jaskier into it

Crickets chirp and off in the distance and beasts slumber as Geralt’s twists in his bedroll. 

_She’s ethereal in the light and Geralt can’t help but reach out to her. Her sheer robes sway when she turns, her body nude under the summer sky, her face reflecting relaxed bliss and the bright sun. She calls out to him, takes his hand, and they spin, glowing, floating, otherworldly in each other’s arms. The longer he looks, the more her face and body changes, and eventually, she looks nothing like herself at all. In fact, the body Geralt twirls as they dance across a golden field of grass and wheat, is a man’s, nearly as tall as him, fit with lithe muscle and a chest covered with hair so thick, it puts his own to shame._ _He feels free, they feel free and Geralt smiles, laughs as he dips the man, kisses gently, and rightens him. They keep spinning across the field, laughing to each other’s jokes in hushed whispers, dancing with such joy that they are blinded, unaware as they near the edge of the field._ _He falls out of Geralt’s hands, slipping backwards, tipping into the dark; falling, falling, falling; blue eyes stare up at him in terror and Geralt can’t catch him, no matter how far he reaches, how hard he tries._

He wakes, his flinch and gasp hidden under years of witcher training. He sits wordlessly and looks across the camp to Jaskier, watching his bard as he sleeps deeply, blue eyes closed, the same blue eyes he’d seen wide open in panic as he’d fallen into that endless chasm. Geralt swallows and drags his eyes down the bard’s body covered by the top layer of his bedroll, safe, warm, clothes and cloth hiding the lithe muscle and thick hair.

Geralt has to see. See that he’s safe, that he’s all here instead of falling deeper, deeper, _deeper_ into a dark where Geralt can’t reach him, can’t catch him _._ He takes a breath, one that hitches in his throat as Geralt peels back the fur-lined blanket that barely keeps his bard warm enough on his thin bedroll and watches as he shivers is the chill air.

He cups Jaskier’s cheek, finding warmth in his chest as the bard snuzzles closer into his palm. “Jask—” he bends down, brushing his lips across the bard’s and when he pulls away, warm blue eyes stare up at him, lazily half-lidded with sleep. “Geralt?” He sits up, tugging the blanket around his shoulders. “Geralt, what's wrong?” The witcher can only stare. Has his bard always been this beautiful? Dull embers of the dying fire reflects in his blue eyes, giving them amber streaks, the yellow-orange reflects off his skin to show off his freckles— _freckles?_ Since when has Jaskier had freckles? And the little scar between his eyebrows, the mole under the septum of his nose?

“What’s going on Geralt? Talk to me.” And lips, pale red like the aftershocks of a set sun.

The witcher tilts his head, and whispers, “Nightmare,” their lips nearly touching. Jaskier stills underneath him before he relaxes and rests his palm over the hand Geralt still uses to cup his cheek. 

Gently, he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s mouth.

He leans against a log and carefully pulls Jaskier between his legs, his back against the witcher’s chest, their lips still on the other’s. Slowly, he pulls away and slides the bard’s undershirt off of him before carefully undoing the thin cord that holds his smallclothes in place. He kisses down the back of Jaskier’s neck, unhurried as the man arches back into him, Geralt’s slicked palm dragging against his half-hard flesh. He wraps one arm around the bard’s chest and holds him so close, as to never let him fall away, protected from the dark of the night. He carefully trails his hand upwards, through the thicket of hair, to gently rest at the bard’s neck, preening as he realizes just how much Jaskier trusts him, though he is doubtlessly undeserving of it. 

He kisses up his jaw, slowly working Jaskier to orgasam. He doesn’t know how long they’ve sat there, Geralt edging his bard with a mix of rough, and breeze-like strokes, enjoying the control, the comfort he finds in the other, knowing he’s safe in the witcher’s arms. He exhales shakily, pressing more kisses to Jaskier’s lips after marking the man’s bruises from last night as his own, possessive. 

He’s not sure where the feeling of _need_ comes from, the need to take care of Jaskier, the sudden realization that his bard is gorgeous, strong, and so easy to lose, could slip out of Geral’s grasp at any second but chooses to _stay_ —he feels Jasksier buck into his fist and pumps faster, the bard twitching, writhing, his lips parted, eyes closed as he shudders, so _close_. “Look at me, Jaskier,” he mumbles into his ear and the ocean eyes stare into him, filled with lust and want, as Jaskier comes undone, his teeth digging into his lower lip.

He rests his head against the man’s shoulder, nose buried into the crook of his neck, breathing his scent, reveling in the fact that they are here and they’re both safe. Eventually, he gets up, his nerves calmed after those dreadful nightmares, comforted by the fact that Jaskier is still there, alive, having just been in his arms. He settles back into his bedroll, wordlessly lifting a corner of the cover in invitation. 

Jaskier looks at him, his eyes suddenly losing all lustre, lifeless, though the fire still illuminates them. He looks so tired, impossibly so, and Geralt frowns. “What’s wrong?” He can see the tears Jaskier blinks back, “Nothing,” and settles into his own bedroll, his back facing Geralt.

Neither of them sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! You guys are literally so lovely, I'm speechless <333
> 
> Hope you guys liked this one, I enjoyed writing it a lot, writing geralt Realize is fun.
> 
> Title from "Sunflower, Vol. 6" by Harry Styles!


	14. Our devils broke rank (and out of the depths came an army)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]] Geralt doesn't ask for consent and there's no aftercare or comfort

Jaskier watches as Geralt shifts in his bedroll, exhausted from his day of walking. He wants to reach out to him, comfort his friend, but he knows his touch will probably be rejected. Probably violently. The bard winces at the memory of Geralt catching his hand in his own, his grip too tight when he’d offered to cut the man’s hair years ago. He remembers the snarled _don’t touch me_ and though Jaskier ignored it so often, had let his touches be casual, brief, thoughtless, but he isn’t sure anymore.

Life has done a number on him; he isn’t the same carefree man he was but two years ago. Jaskier sighs, burrowing into himself in attempt to fight off the cold before slipping into a restless sleep himself.

~~ 

Jaskier wakes up to a soft press to his lips, his eyes fluttering as he tries to blink away his sleep and open his eyes, only to be met with amber eyes staring at him in the dull light. A warm palm spans over half his face as it cups his cheek. It's so gentle that he can't help but cup his own palm against the witcher's and lean into the touch. 

"Geralt?” He tugs his blanket over his shoulders as he sits up, the thin material of his undershirt doing nothing against the chill. He watches as Geralt’s inspection grow more intense, eyes nearly shining in the light. “What’s going on Geralt?” The witcher’s worrying him, intensely quite as he looks at Jaskier's face, into his eyes, for a reason the bard doesn't know, “Talk to me."

He flinches, leaning back as Geralt leans in to kiss him, only to be stopped when the other whispers _nightmare_ against his lips. He relaxes and lets winter-chapped lips press to his own as he lets the witcher in, the staring forgotten and brushed aside when he realizes exactly what Geralt’s doing and why. 

A nightmare. It’s pointless to ask of what or of who for who else could it be of if Geralt was kissing him. He steels himself, letting his eyes slip closed as their kiss deepens before the witcher pulls away, lips parted, his eyes still so intensely amber. Geralt leans against a log, just a ways away from Jaskier, and tugs the bard between his legs; Jaskier can feel his cock dig into his lower back through the witcher’s clothes and the bard’s lips part in a mockery of a moan, unable to sound it—Melitele _if only this was real._

He’s slowly undressed and bucks in shock as he feels Geralt’s hand, slick, wrap around his cock, an organ that’s so distinctly masculine that Jaskier feels his eyebrows twist in confusion. The witcher’s never touched his cock, not when he’d first taken him the first time, in that nameless tavern, not when they’d fucked in Yennefer’s orgy ruins, not anytime after that, either and Jaskier doesn’t understand but the confusion doesn’t stop the pleasure he feels, and worse, doesn’t stop the hope he feels.

Jaskier bares his neck to the side, feeling kisses down his neck that make him feel so cared for, so loved as Geralt works bruises into his skin and an arm comes to wrap around the bard’s chest.

He stills as the palm of Geralt’s hand travels up his chest, trailing through the hair there before wrapping around Jaskier’s neck. Fear churns in his stomach as he quickly realizes of his situation, how easily Geralt could hurt him, hold him down—he feels another soft kiss press at the base of Jaskier’s neck and the bard feels _trapped_.

Prey caught in a trap, predator playing with him before he devours him—his hips snap forward in shock as he’s brought to the edge again, his lip worried, bit sharply into as he desperately keeps in his moans, but it’s so impossibly _difficult_ , he’s been on this edge for what feels like a hundred years. “Jaskier—” He closes his eyes, writhing, shuddering, so close, so impossibly close— “Look at me, Jaskier.” He barely has the time to snap open his eyes before he’s twitching, nearly fucking Geralt’s fist before spilling over it, fear promptly forgotten, overwhelmed in pleasure and those warm, golden eyes.

He collapses back against Geralt, his own skin flushed, his lips parted as his chest rises and falls rapidly, mouth dry as he tries to catch his breath. Jaskier feels strong arms around him, wrapping around his hips in a loose embrace and confusion promptly rises from mindless pleasure.

What had Geralt been doing? He hadn't been imagining Yen; he’d looked at him, kissed his lips, pleasured him, all without asking for anything in return. Eyes wide open, too, quite literally—no semblance of illusion had taken place in their coupling.

Eventually, Geralt pulls away from him and tucks himself into his bedroll, his cock still half-hard but ignored for some reason Jaskier can’t grasp. He then feels confusion give away into understanding, into… sadness, as Geralt lifts open an end of his bedroll.

A pity fuck. 

No wonder Geralt hadn’t cared for his own pleasure, no wonder he’d kissed him, looked at Jaskier, hugged him, for Melitele’s sake! He feels tears rise into his eyes as he desperately tries to blink them back, refusing to let himself cry for his love, especially in front of the man whom he loves. Geralt’s eyebrow furrows in confusion and Jaskier wants to do nothing more than to kiss between them and smoothen the wrinkles away. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier fights a sniffle as he mumbles a nothing and climbs back into his bedroll, sticky with sweat, cum, and emotions, his back turned to the witcher.

The sounds of the forest haunts him as he watches the sky lighten and the sun rise into a new day filled with renewed sadness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this stated some of your curiosities of what Jaskier felt during this last scene! It was definitely interesting working through his through process, t'was a fun chapter to write.
> 
> Also the fact that jaskier said dicks are distinctly masculine is bullshit, genitals have nothing to do with masculinity or femininity or gender, he's just taking about how his dick probably doesn't remind Geralt of Yennefer. 
> 
> Edit: id forgotten that Geralt wakes jaskier with a kiss and that he cups his cheek whilst jaskiers still laying down oops. It's fixed now though! Let me know if there's anything else that was inconsistent about this chapter!! Sorry again <33
> 
> Let me know what you guys thought of it, fucking adore your guys' comments and thoughts <33 
> 
> Title from "Battle Cries" by The Amazing Devil.


	15. I’m the touch you crave (I’m the plans that you made)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]]] jaskier is physically abused by a mage for the mage's entertainment

They part as the season grows colder, till Jaskier is forced to share a bedroll with Geralt to keep his teeth from chattering. Jaskier sends Geralt off with a slightly-forced smile, lacking the hope that usually fills it each winter but his smiles have grown dimmer and dimmer in the past month and the witcher isn’t sure what to do. 

Perhaps the time away will be good for both of them. They can rest, heal before following the path again, Jaskier trailing after Geralt in wanderlust. He gives Jaskier a brief smile before turning Roach, who gives a whinny that sounds rather sad, as if she too’s saying goodbye. Jaskier calls after her, promising that he’ll be back when as soon as frost melts and to meet her with treats. She huffs and Geralt hides his amusement as they follow different paths down the fork.

~~

They meet just as Jaskier had promised, the bard running up to them on the road. He brings out sticky sugar-cubes for Roach, who nearly chews off Jaskier’s hand before butting his chest affectionately. Though the snow has all melted, Jaskier’s babbling, his companionship, melts the last of the ice from Geralt’s chest. The time apart has been good for them, after all. 

~~ 

Or maybe not. Jaskier is covered with bruises. They wash in a river, Roach gnawing at the grass nearby. He tells him that some lover had taken him in for the winter but doesn’t meet the witcher’s eyes, fidgeting as he sinks further under the water to hide the bruises. They aren’t from love-making, Geralt can tell that much, but the knowledge only makes their existence all the more worse, knowing Jaskier had been hurt and marked without his pleasure. Jaskier quickly dries and redresses but not quick enough to hide his body from Geralt. Some of the bruises are old, fading into a yellow, but others are fresh, as if they’d been made earlier in the week—perhaps even the day they had joined after being apart for the winter.

He glances at Jaskier, who chatters on and continues to refuse to meet his eyes.

~~ 

“Who was it?” Jaskier looks up at Geralt from his notebook, his tongue still stuck out (adorably) from between his lips.

“Who was what, Geralt? You’ll have to be more specific than that, dear heart.” The witcher grunts and turns back to his swords, unsure how to ask again. Silence stretches, time itself slowing as if to encourage Geralt in his venture into the conversation. Jaskier, unsurprisingly, speaks up first. “It was a mage. He took me in for the winter in exchange for my… services. Services, it turned out, was to help with his anger and to provide entertainment.” He prods at a bruise on the back of his wrist, one from a grip too hard around it, and sighs.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Geralt knows the answer to this already, that there were guards, that he’d tried but the mage was clever and that—

“There was nowhere else for me to go.” The witcher’s head snaps to Jaskier, who gazes into the fire.

“But Oxenfurt—” 

“Oxenfurt? The college that made a mockery of me whilst I studied under it? I’d rather fall by the hands of Valdo Marx than go back there,” he tosses a twig into the fire, “and Lettenhove—well I left for Oxenfurt to _escape_ that place, you can imagine for yourself why I don’t go back.” 

All these years, he’s left Jaskier thinking the bard had had a stable home to return to, that he was being pampered and cared for in all ways the traveling with Geralt couldn’t provide, only to find out that the witcher had been abandoning Jaskier for months in the bitter cold, left to the mercy of either greedy, evil folk of power, or to the side of the road.

“I know what you’re thinking, poor Jaskier, blah blah blah blah blah, but mind you,” he waves his hands as he talks as if this isn’t a big deal, as if it’s normal that he suffers this way during the harshest season of the year, “I’ve taken care of myself for two decades, now,” has that much time truly passed? It seemed so long ago that he’d met Jaskier but far shorter at the same time, “and I can continue to do so, so do keep your righteousness to yourself.” 

It’s true, he’s seen his bard go feral, throw fists left and right if someone said something remotely off about Geralt, dig his nails into eyes of bandits, steal, evade, run, and he’s seen Jaskier do it all done with a smile and a grin. Still, it unsettles Geralt that he’s being left to the mercy of those who obviously hurt him, taking advantage of the bard’s lack of coin as it always is during the colder months and of the fact that he has no one during the winter; the bard is a social man if Geralt knew one and he knows that Jaskier would rather take a beating than go months without conversation and entertainment.

“Come with me, then” he mumbles as Jaskier looks back up at him.

“To where? Kaer Morhen?” he chuckles, as if that the idea of Geralt inviting him home is so outrageous that it’s rather funny, though that’s exactly what Geralt’s doing. “Oh.” 

“Next winter. We’ll have to leave earlier than we usually do.” Jaskier nods and the scent of chamomile is so thick in the air, Geralt nearly misses the scent of panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's for geralt to invite jask to kaer mohren and realize that he cares about jaskier and jask panics (honestly this is a filler chapter if ive ever written one) that'll be explained sorta in the far future (like, six chapter later) i suck i know
> 
> title from "That Unwanted Animal" by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> I'm having a really rough day, sorry i sound so flat guys <33 i adore you all and you ideas and opinions on my fic here.
> 
> lemme know what you thought of it!


	16. And you rip my ribcage open (and devour what’s truly yours)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] jaskier's sad as he has sex with geralt. also, undiscussed praise kink?

Geralt spends the night holding his bard, kissing at his bruises, trying to replace them with his own. Tonight, he isn’t thinking of Yennefer, he hasn't thought of her for a while, and he's focused on helping his friend forget the cruelties caused to him with gentle touches. He doesn’t truly know how they got here, comfortable with touching each other, kissing, fucking, but Jaskier looks up at him with wide blue eyes, filled with something he can’t quite name and he finds that he doesn’t care as to how, as long as the look is replaced by pleasure. He hums, content as Jaskier’s scent shifts from bitter pain to his happy chamomile, though fear taints his scent consistently, no matter how little, and Geralt feels himself grow disconcerted.

“Why are you so afraid?” he asks.

He’s met with Jaskier’s eyes filling with a darkness that he seems to be wearing more often, losing light before Geralt’s eyes as the bard’s palm comes to cup his cheek and bring him down back to their kiss. The witcher doesn’t understand why Jaskier is so  _ saddened _ by the question and hopes to kiss him out of the feeling, aching to help his bard. 

Jaskier opens beautifully underneath him, a flower in bloom, touched by sunlight, though that implies that Geralt is sunlight, inviting, warm, trusted, and he doubts anyone sees him so. He curses Jaskier for rubbing off on him, poetic drivel pushed aside as he kisses down Jaskier’s chest, reveling in the hair that resides there. He’s  _ beautiful, _ and takes care to tell him so. “You’re gorgeous, Jask,” he mumbles, lazily kissing the crown of the man’s cock.

He doesn’t understand as Jaskier pulls away, sitting up as he looks anywhere but at Geralt. He doesn’t understand the stink of such abject hurt and misery, the air filling with the smell of waterlogged vegetables. “Jask—” the bard quickly leans forward, kisses his name off of Geralt’s lips. He wants to ask what’s wrong, why Geralt can’t call him pretty when all the bard does is preen under compliments and why the  _ hell _ he reeks so constantly of  _ fear. _

~~

He finds himself on his back, Jaskier sinking down onto his own cock, head thrown back and Geralt realizes what’s felt so off about their couplings from the start of it all.

Jaskier is  _ silent. _

All Geralt can hear is the wood cracking in the fire, their combined breaths, and if the witcher lets his concentration slip, the sounds of the forest around them, but not the slightest moan or whine, so painfully opposite to what Geralt’s heard from him through traven walls. Jaskier is  _ known _ for his voice, both on stage and in bed, and Geralt, cursed or, blessed, with his hearing abilities, could attest to both. But now, Jaskier is so quiet, it makes the witcher’s ears ring.

He himself can’t keep in the punched-out moans as Jaskier roughly rides his cock, desperation evident in his movements and though Geralt enjoys the pleasure, he can’t help but wonder if Jaskier fucks himself onto the witcher’s cock to chase his own pleasure or if it’s to end this all the more quickly. 

He flips them over gently, though insistently, Jaskier underneath him, beautiful blue eyes looking up at him in confusion, lips still pressed closed. “Let me,” Geralt mutters, fucking into Jaskier slowly, watching the bard’s face twist in pleasure as he slowly increases his pace, soon drilling into his bard. “Fuck, fuck, Jaskier, you’re so tight around me, such a good boy, so good for me—” he watches as Jaskier’s body  _ shakes _ in an orgasm so intense that he arches clean off the ground, eyes rolled back in pleasure as he desperately grips the bedroll.

Geralt feels his breath hitch in his throat as he watches, observes, and commits the image to memory because Jaskier is  _ breathtaking _ . It’s a miracle it’d taken the witcher so long to notice because Jaskier is  _ heart-stoppingly _ beautiful and Geralt knows he could watch him till the end time. 

He fucks his bard through his orgasm, watching as he collapses back down, sweaty, content and so fucuking relaxed and trusting, the fear gone from his scent  _ entirely _ , that it pushes Geralt over. He grunts as he spills into Jaskier, kissing him as he thrusts into him, whispering that  _ “Melitele, he’s beautiful, that he could watch him forever, that he’s so good for him,”  _ over and over, breathless, mindless in adoration. 

~~

Later, he wonders if he’s said too much, if he’s scared his bard away, but they fuck again the next night, and the night after that one and after that one, too, till Geralt loses track of nights and days of touchitng Jaskier and slowly, he stops worrying about his words and starts realizing.

  
That he’s wanted the bardlet all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt really wrong to leave you guys with just a filler so here's some more <3 thank you for your well wishes, you guys are lovely.
> 
> Title from "That Unwanted Animal" by The Amazing Devil.


	17. And the sun shone, having no alternative (on the nothing new)

The path takes them north, itching to get away from the harsh summers of the south. Jaskier walks bow-legged from last night’s dicking. Geralt’s been thinking of Yenn more often these days and Jaskier does what he can to aid the witcher’s cravings, no matter how they hurt him, no matter how afraid he is of the witcher’s using him. Geralt looks at him more, eyes soft with what can only be pity, is more gentle with him, kisses him like he means it. He’s just a decoy, Jaskier knows this, but he wants, wants so badly that the pain is miniscule, pushed away each time the witcher touches him with fond touches that are meant for a sorceress rather than a lowly bard.

The feeling of hurt fills him constantly, though, and no matter how he tries to ignore the pain, it makes his chest ache and his head spin so much that he sometimes has to close his eyes when they fuck, pretend that Geralt isn’t using him for a moment, to simply steady himself.

He can feel himself slipping, his mind giving away, subjecting himself to the pain and fear over and over, every night as Geralt moans his name, _pretending, pretending, pretending_ , though Jaskier wants to believe it to be true _so much_. He still doesn’t make sound when they fuck because _Melitele_ _knows_ what would happen to Jaskier if Geralt’s illusions fell away. He knows he’d be cast aside, knows he’d realize that Jaskier is nothing like the one the witcher imagines, no curves, no voice, no _power._ He’d realize that Jaskier was weak… selfish, greedy for Geralt’s touches so much that he’d let the witcher use him and then what?

He’d be left. Abandoned in a nameless town, left like everyone leaves him. Though he’s so careful not to break Geralt’s illusion, Jaskier wakes in panic every morning, only calming when he sees Roach dozing by a tree and the witcher grunt a good morning at him as he packs his bedroll.

His fear of Geralt, his touches, his power over him, is so constant that he tires of acknowledging it. He knows his scent is shifted, probably, because the witcher had asked months ago why he was so scared but what could he say? That he’s terrified of not only being unwanted, but of being wanted so much that the witcher just pins him down and takes him? He refuses to believe that Geralt would do such thing but the thought is ever-present in his mind, plagues him so much so that he flinches when the witcher moves too quickly or too silently, and promptly panics when Geralt asks him what’s wrong because  _ what’s he supposed to say?  _ He says nothing, or he says it’s nothing, and the witcher is more cautious around him all day and Jaskier hates himself for being so annoyingly weak.

~~

Then they’re on the path again, Jaskier lively as ever though the blood in his veins is replaced by longing and each beat of his heart causes him pain. Geralt’s softer around him, as if he knows what’s happening to his bard, as if he knows that Jaskier longs for him and fears of more than he can say. The witcher kisses him without reason, cups his cheek, his waist, presses him to the tree, to the ground, and thety fuck and they kiss oh but if only they didn’t have to pretend, if only Jaskier could  _ trust _ . He can see it in Geralt’s eyes, the confusion as he scents the bad, why the scent of lilac and gooseberries isn’t in the air, but whatever Jaskier’s Melitele-forsaken scent is, tinged by whatever hurt smells like, is.

But, Geralt touches him. And they continue to pretend, Geralt that Jaskier is Yennefer and Jaskier pretends Geralt truly wants him. They live a relationship of lies created by creativity and desperation for love from people they cannot have.

Sometimes, when Jaskier thinks about it, it sounds rather poetic.

He’s not sure how much longer he can do this, he’s a shell of who he used to be, and Geralt tries, with his dry humour, compliments, touches casually all to make Jaskier smile. He does, but they both know it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

~~ 

Summer turns to fall and to winter. Geralt buys supplies and sneaks a pretty bunch of red flowers into Jaskier’s hands and wraps a wristband engraved with a wolf, dandelions dancing on either side of it. He looks up at Geralt, who looks back expectantly, only to have his face fall when Jaskier only musters up a grin and a bright thanks. He’s been fucking paying Jaskier the past couple months with pretties like he’s a fucking  _ whore. _

__

He nearly crushes the roses in his fist as he helps pack the supplies into their bags, petting down Roach as her saddlebags fill. She whinnies, stomping her hooves, nervous for the trek up the mountain, no doubt. “You and me both, Roachie,” he mumbles, braiding the flowers into her hair as they wait for Geralt to finish the last of the shopping.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont know how the fuck i skipped over posting this chapter im a dumbass 
> 
> lemme know what you thought? love your guys' comments (im sill panicking how tf did i forgot this chapter)
> 
> title from "Murphy" by Samuel Beckett.


	18. I couldn't want you any more (kiss in the kitchen like it's a dance floor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] None, bitches! Enjoy!

Jaskier’s exhausted by the time they make it up the mountain, his feet aching under the strain of a steep, uphill path. Roach huffs and butts his chest when they finally reach the door—he finds that he’s the only one panting, both the witcher and his horse used to years up this path. He rolls his eyes as Geralt looks upon him with amusement, smacking his hand away when he reaches out to help him with their bags, “Witchers and their sodding stamina,” he glares at Roach, who looks appropriately bashful, “and their fucking super-horses.” He’s flicked with her tail in reproach as she huffs again, “Yes, fine, that was a complement, your highness,” and backs away into the stone entrance.

The fortress itself is a  _ massive _ thing, though it stands in ruins, Jaskier can’t help his awe as he looks around, amazed by the sheer size of it. No doubt, it was built by witchers, it’s evident, scarce of decorational carvings, built to last, but it’s utterly magnificent nonetheless—or at least, what remains of it is. Geralt walks in behind him, welcoming the bard with a, “this is it; rest of my brothers should be arriving soon—seems we’ve beat Vesemir, even.” Jaskier can’t help the thrill of excitement he feels when he thinks of meeting Geralt’s family, especially considering he’s rarely even heard of them and their stories from his own detail-stingy witcher.

He helps Geralt move their things into his bedroom and lights a fire in the sparsely decorated room as they settle in, excitedly chattering about his stay here, about how eager he is to meet the witchers, and all the songs he’s going to compose, hoping to coax more details out of their hunts than Geralt’s. It feels so  _ good _ to be excited, to look forward to something when all had felt so bleak, and though he’s still nervous about his stay here, about being under Geralt’s mercy and whims for the entire winter with no escape, he can’t help but feel somewhat like himself with the prospect of meeting new and exciting people, Geralt’s  _ brothers _ , for Melitele’s sake!

~~

They clean away dust and cobwebs in the room—Jaskier’s nearly drenched by the time they're done, his hair sticking up in odd directions despite the short scarf he’d tied around his head to keep it out of his face. Luckily, they’d sorted out their supplies kitchen  _ before _ they’d begun mopping and brooming—Geralt was sensible enough for that, at least, but not sensible enough to change into worse clothes before they’d started cleaning. Jaskier himself is donned in an old pair of breeches and a sheer, plain undershirt. Geralt, poor Geralt, had abandoned his tunic entirely, the sodden thing hung up on a chair, his leather trousers tight around his legs. It’s a miracle the man can even move in them, honestly. He splashes water at his friend, a laugh making its way out of his lips as he runs, the witcher chasing after him with a soapy bucket.

Like this, he remembers, who he was, who they are, such light filling his heart as he takes in the water dripping from Geralt’s white hair, laughing, chuckling, giggling,  _ trusting _ .

Oh, how he adores it.

He ducks as Geralt pours the water over his head, shaking his head as his hair splatters water everywhere. He suspects they’re making more of a mess than cleaning the place but neither of them care. He goes to tackle his friend, only to slip on the soapy water and fall headfirst into the stone ground, caught just in time by Geralt’s hands and straightened, only, the ground is too slippery to keep the witcher on his feet. They both fall, Jaskier with a cackle as Geralt’s arms wrap around his waist and brings him down with him with him—he can feel Geralt’s huffs of laughed underneath him, their stomachs pressed together, his body perpendicular to his witcher’s. He looks up at his friend with a playful scowl. “Oh, that’s hardly fair! You don’t take the prince  _ with _ you to fight a dragon, my friend! You safely rescue him before you fight the damned thing!” Jaskier shoves off of Geralt, who looks up at the bard with the fucking  _ silliest _ grin Jaskie has  _ ever _ seen on him. 

The sight fills him with glee, to see his friend so happy, so carefree,  _ he could just kiss him! _

And he does, pressing his lips to Geralt’s as the witcher sits, cupping his cheeks with his grimy hands. He laughs as he pulls back, wiping away his handprints from his friend’s face, only, Geralt isn’t laughing with him. Oh shit. “Geralt,” he sits back, trying to step away from his friend,” Fuck, I’m so sorry—” Oh, what has he  _ done? _ What had he been thinking, going to kiss his friend, his friend whom he  _ knows _ is in love with another, oh what has he—Geralt surges forward, pressing another kiss Jaskier’s lips and they’re wrapped up in one another, he’s straddling he man’s hips, fingers tangled in white hair, clutching at him  _ desperately _ and Geralt… Geralt wraps his arms around his waist, relaxed, pliant, receptive and kissing back? He moans as his friend bites at his lip, letting Geralt deepen the kiss before letting his arms circle the witcher’s shoulders.

Eventually, Jaskier pulls away, flushed, lips swollen, panting as he looks into his friend’s eyes. And fuck, does he feel his breath being stolen from his lungs, sucked out as if he’s been punched in the gut. “What just hap—”

The stone door swings open once more, and an old man walks in, blinks at the soaked-stone floor, at Geralt, and then at Jaskier. Geralt barely has time to get into a sprint, half slipping in the water, before the older witcher starts chasing after him, and Jaskier succumbs to laughs as he hears Vesemir’s yell of,  _ Geralt, get your ass back, here!  _ echo through the halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since i've written fluff i nearly forgot how it felt, i grinned writing this entire chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy your momentary reprieve from the angst, folks! ;) Seriously ;)) 
> 
> I fucking love your guys' comments you're literally all so wonderful; though i started writing for myself, i know i would've quit a long time ago without your support <33 also i have 69 people bookmark this fic as i post this so...,,,,, nice...,,, 😎
> 
> and maybe this is a little out of character for my jaskier? but let the poor boy have his fun before things go to shit, ok?? 
> 
> title from "Sunflower Vol. 6" by Harry Styles! i was so excited about this chapter i could wait to post it; ill edit sooonnnn okayyyy 
> 
> love you all, lemme know what you thought! <3333


	19. Dance around the living room (lose me in the sight of you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[WARNINGS/SPOILERSS]]] Jaskier nearly has a panic attack when lambert takes him by the hips and spins him.

They’ve only just finished cleaning up, Jaskier’s mind still on the kiss, sharing shy, hesitant glances with Geralt as he stands to put the dirty cloth away. The door creaks open again, this time to let in a witcher with a scar cutting over his eyes that sparkle like an imp’s. He greets Geralt with a tackle, not minding in the slightest bit that he’s dirtier than a swamp hag as he wrestles his brother, ultimately tapping out as Geralt pins him down with his arm stretched back so uncomfortably far that it makes Jaskier wince.

The witcher rises to his feet, bringing Geralt into a proper hug—he’s never seen his witcher so free with his touch around someone, so comfortable that he hugs him without second thought. Jaskier smiles at the thought—there might be a song there, wolves coming home to their pack—a song just for them. The pleased turn of his lips falls from his face as he’s suddenly faced with Lambert’s full attention, a mischievous light in his eyes are the bard’s only warning before the witcher runs at him in full speed, suddenly lifting the bard up by the hips and spinning around him before setting him back down, his hands still on Jaskier’s waist. “And this must be the bard travelling with our  _ white wolf _ , spreading good word of us  _ humble witchers _ .”

The bard shifts, still in too much shock of having been handled so suddenly, so effortlessly before being caged in by the witcher’s hand to come up with a witty reply to duel the mockery in Lambert’s voice. He realizes he’s shaking, if only barely, and Lambert shrugs, stepping away from him when he’s given no answer. “It seems I’ve broken your poor bardlet, brother,” he calls to Geralt as he goes to greet Vesemir, his packs still slung over his back.

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, eyes wide, probably  _ stinking _ of fear as he leans against a wall. He’s being so fucking  _ weak. _ He’d been invited into a witcher’s keep, for fuck’s sake, he’s been trusted enough to be let inside their fortress, and here he is,  _ seconds _ away from a panic attack because one of them had moved too quickly, held him too tightly. He steps away as Geralt begins to approach him, giving the witcher a brief smile in reply to his friend’s worried, “ _ Jaskier, are you alright? _ ” With a sinking stomach, he realizes he won’t be at the mercy of just one witcher this winter, but of four.

~~

Eskel arrives just as blizzard clouds form in the sky. He greets his brothers with tackles, slinging Lambert over his shoulder and somehow catching Geralt in a headlock before proudly making his way over to Vesemir, who only trips the witcher and watches in barely-concealed amusement and fondness as his pupils fall into a pile of witcher pups.

Luckily, Eskel only presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s hand, showing such respect for a  _ bard _ of all people that he can’t help but take a liking to the witcher already and draw the man into a hug as they finish their introductions. “We’ve heard a lot of you, Master Bard,” and Jaskier grins.

“Nothing too terrible, I hope.” Eskel laughs in such a free manner that he wonders why he didn’t end up with this witcher, and instead with one that had taken nearly a decade to simply admit that Jaskier wasn’t a nuisance. Nonetheless, he can’t say he regrets his meeting with Geralt, though it’s caused him much pain, and he—well, he chooses not to think of it now, instead helping the witchers settle back into their home.

By the end of the day, he knows that Lambert’s a fucking snake, Eskel’s a gentleman, Geralt’s… Geralt, and Vesemir is their oddly proud father.

He determines he loves them all already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! This chapter's part one of two; Jaskier finally meets he wolves of kaer morhen! 
> 
> Title from "Lover of Mine" by 5SOS.
> 
> Lemme know what you thought! <333 adore you all


	20. They warned us (a storm is coming on)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[WARNINGS/SPOILERS]]]] no explicit consent

The storm howls outside, the fortress turning into a giant ice cube as the winter’s first winds make themselves known. The keep creaks in odd intervals and in such ghoulish ways that Jaskier half-believes that the old place is haunted. Geralt sits close to him, sharing a side on the small table, all the witcher pups (plus the bard) sat around it. Vesemir had gone to bed long ago, nearly right after dinner, when the rest of the witchers and the bard had relocated to Lambert’s room and the drinking had started. He doubts the older witcher can sleep with this whole ruckus going on but can’t find it in himself to feel bad or quieten, especially as he’s concentrated on scratching detail after detail into his parchment-laden notebook, his quill running out of ink only seconds after he dips it in as the witchers share their stories.

He sips at his mulled wine, the only stronger alcohol they kept on hand was brewed for witchers and was guaranteed to burn through any human’s esophagus (some unfortunate soul had apparently tried it in back in the day, only to die an ungodly death), so he’s quite content with his drink. 

There’d been a tension in Geralt’s shoulders that’d all but disappeared when they’d gotten deeper into their cups, and Jaskier’s quite glad for it; his witcher deserves to relax, no matter how the idea scares him, that he might relax so much so that his judgement lapses and he takes him then and there in front of his brothers—Jaskier shakes his head, forcing the thoughts away as he draws a rough sketch of Eskel fighting a drowned dead, laughing as he tells a similar story of Geralt getting his foot stuck in a crack in the ground after a particular dodge, the table erupting into chuckles and jabs at _Vesemir’s Favourite Wicher._

Eventually, Geralt’s smiles turn into unabashed laughs that rise with his brothers’, the more they drink, the louder they get and to see Geralt in his element, comfortable around his family, around _him_ enough to let himself feel like this—it’s such a wonderful thing that Jaskier can’t help but sneakily sketch it down, stealing glimpse of Gerralt’s face he hopes his witcher won’t notice.

~~ 

Eventually, the room quietens, the witchers falling into a comfortable silence. The storm’s let up more or less, but he figures that there are going to be terrible mountains of snow outside for whoever dares to go out in this horrid cold (the witchers doing their chores, most likely, rather risking prolonged exposure to the icy air than to risk Vesemir’s devastatingly disappointed looks). He leans against Geralt, only to straighten when he realizes his witcher’s tense, so much so that he doesn’t really move. “Geralt?” He places his hand over his friend’s, drunk enough to throw caution to the wind. “Are you alright, darling?”

Lambert leans forward from across the able, winking as Eskel mutters, “Of course he’s alright, watch this—” Jaskier stares as Lambert pulls Geralt into a kiss, and to the bard’s neverending shock, watches as Geralt fucking reciprocates it. The bard is pulled by his underarms, into Eskel’s lap, the table pushed out of the way. He feels Eskel kiss down his neck, slowly undo his buttons as Jaskier tries uselessly to fucking rip his eyes away from his friend, who only unbutton’s Lambert’s shirt as the witcher tugs Geralt’s shirt over his head.

 _Melitele, what_ the _fuck?_

He whimpers as he feels Eskel palm at his cock, his cursed body hardening in his breeches, his lips still parted in shock. “Have you ever seen your witcher like this, bard?” His own cock is hard against the small of Jaskier’s back as he’s stroked, Eskel continuing the whisper of filthy things into his ear. “Have you seen him need? Want?” Oh, and Jaskier aches to whisper _too often_ into the air, but is much too frozen with shock, confusion, and _hurt_ , after they’d just kissed earlier today—the bard has no right to be angry, he knows this but he’d finally _hoped_ they were getting somewhere, hoped that Geralt had wanted him, only to find out that all Geralt had wanted was to share his _whore_ with his brothers. He turns away, pressing his lips to Eskel’s just in time to prevent the sob’s that’s bubbled up in his throat from escaping.

He can play this part, then, be the damned, utter fool he was born to be, lead the life of heartbreak and loss till he’s dizzy with it—

the door opens with a slam. 

Vesemir stands under the archway, glaring at each of his pup’s faces with an anger Jaskier isn’t sure how to justify, though he does oddly worry for the man’s health, especially the pressure of his blood, even though he is a fucking witcher. 

He takes Jaskier’s wrist and brings him to his legs, seething as he regards his pups. “Leave the bard out of your ridiculous customs,” he spits, “he doesn’t want you. I am _horrified_ at your inability to be able to tell when your partner does not enjoy your touches.” He promptly leads Jaskier out the door and slams it shut behind him.

Jaskier goes to protest, to say that he had been enjoying it, that it was fine, that he lives to please, but Vesemirr cuts him off with a dry smile. “Believe me when I say this, bardlet—we have much to talk about.” 

Outside, the storm picks up again; a second wind comes for all Jaskier owns as he follows Vesemir into his chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....well that happened. wonder what vesemir's gonna talk to jask about, hmmm. 
> 
> Title from "Welly Boots" by The Amazing Devil. 
> 
> Sorry for the surprise second chapter but this scene felt so incomplete without this second part <33 love ya guys; lemme know what you thought!!! ive literally not proofread this either ill get it around to it sorryy


	21. I've trusted lies and trusted men (broke down and put myself back together again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]]] mentions of rape
> 
> also! Hello, everyone! I forgot to post chapter 17, i just did, as of june 16, ~5:30 cst and that chapter's got some important detail about the Kaer Morhen Scenes, so go read that lmao im sorry guys.

“Sit, Julian,” Vesemir nods at the chairs in front of the fireplace, lighting it with a careful flick of ignii as he takes a seat opposite to him. Jaskier shifts in his chair, though it is warm and comfortable in opposition to the cold draft that blew into the room. Silence took them, Jaskier’s heart beating heavily in his chest as he kept himself from breaking it, unsure of what to say. 

“Geralt is courting you. My boys are too stupid to realize you're called for—” The bard’s head snaps up fast, his hair ruffling with the motion as he stares at the older witcher, only to be regarded with calm amber eyes. He leans back into his own chair and tucks his legs underneath him.

“If only.” Jaskier chuckles sadly, looking down at his hands, “He’s paying me.” Vesemir sighs and stands, pouring himself a drink, having determined that Jaskier’s had probably had too much wine already, no matter how sober he feels. 

“For what?” 

“For being his whore, of course. He feels bad, guilt if to name one, that he uses me in place of Yennefer—his sorceress lover and—”

“Oh Melitele, what has he done to you.” Vesemir takes a sip of his drink, looking like he wants to chug it in desperation. “We know of you, bard, of your songs, your humor, dalliances and flirt—when you first came to our home, I saw none of that in you save for the brief moment I witnessed during our initial meeting. And to know that my boy is to blame for this with stupidity he’s conducted around you—”

“Vesemir, please, he was only trying to cope—”

Vesmir stands, radiating fury as he desperately tries to keep from yelling, “By using you as his whore! Forcing you to lose your sense of self, your identity, only to fall in love with you and court you and to have you not know of it…” His voice grows defeated as he sits back down. “Apologies, bard. I am aware that I have not been the best of mentors cum farther but I hadn’t realized I’d done such a disappointing job of raising my boys.”

The silence stretches on.

“Are you aware of the concept of consent, Julian?”

Jaskier bristles as he straightens, “Of course I am, Vesmir, I do not take on a partner unless they truly wish to be taken by me—”

“Then why do you not apply the same courtesy to yourself?” Has that been what has been happening? Jaskier freezes before his head drops into his hands as he realizes that he’s been subjecting himself to being _raped_ by his friend.

_Fuck._

That’s been exactly it, hasn’t it? Unwillingly having sex with Geralt each day, his chest filled with agony after each coupling, no matter how sweet it had been, no matter how gently his witcher had touched him, kissed him, Jaskier’s hated every second of it no matter how he’d tried to not. He shudders and tries his best to hold back his tears, sobs remaining in his chest by habit of not making sound—and gods how _fucked up is that?_

“You’re allowed tears here, bard. You’ve hid yourself away for enough. Answer me, why do you not apply the same courtesy of consent to yourself?”

Jasksier chokes out a sob, reveling in how _good_ it feels before he manages to find his voice. “I _love_ him,” it’s such a wet sound, hideous in how he gasps it but it’s the first time in _decades_ he’s said it aloud and gods, it feels _incredible_ . “I love him—I just wanted to make him hurt less after the _witch_ sends back in _pieces,_ Vesemir.” The witcher comes to kneel in front of him, drawing his arms around Jaskier’s shaking body. He buries his head into the witcher’s shoulder, ignorant to the snot he smears over his sleeve and the tears that soak the witcher’s shoulder. “Apologies, Vesemir, I—” he goes to pull away, only to have the old witcher’s hand cup the back of his head gently bringing him back into the hug as Jaskier desperately wraps his arms back around him.

“It’s alright, Julian,” it’s so comforting, to be held, to be cared for so, to be _truly_ listened to. He sniffles, burying his head into the crook of Vesemir’s neck.

“I’ve been so afraid, Vesemir, of what he’ll do to me, of him holding me down and taking me,” he whispers between sniffles. “He would never hurt me, but I’ve been _so afraid_ and I hadn’t even realized Geralt’s been hurting me so without his even knowing of it.” A comforting hand runs its fingers through Jaskier’s fine hair, soothing him in their wake.

~~

Finally, Jaskier pulls away and Vesemir looks into his eyes before gently taking his hand into his own, running a thumb over the bracelet, the embellishments of dandelions around the wolf, encrusted in silver to reflect that of a white wolf. “This bracelet—” the bard glances down at it before turning to Vesemir, “It’s the same each wolf of Kaer Morhen gifts their intended. With variation, of course, dandelions for _jaskier_ , a white wolf in place of grey… It’s known to be a symbol of courtship when the witcher brings their intended home, a sign to show their intended that they are serious in their pursuits so much that they’re welcoming their intended into the tradition of Kaer Morhen, and into their home itself.”

Vesemir sighs, his bones cracking as he straightens from his crouch before sitting down again in a comfortable cross of his legs. “Of course, in witcher courting, the intended is usually _informed_ in a straightforward fashion that they are to be pursued and are asked if they allow the courtship, but of course, seeing as Geralt is _so excellent_ at asking for consent, I suppose he never did with your courtship, either.”

Jaskier lets go of the breath he’d been holding and takes a seat on the ground next to Vesemir, sitting close to the man as they gaze into the fire. “I don’t understand why, Vesemir, courting _me_ when he should be courting Yennefer, I’m only a too-loud bard that hasn’t gotten off his back in two decades-worth time… “ He gently leans his head against Vesemir’s shoulder as he speaks, words quiet in the air.

“You said you love him, did you not?” Jaskier nods.

“He’s grown to love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Hello, everyone! I forgot to post chapter 17, i just did, as of june 16, ~5:30 cst and that chapter's got some important detail about the Kaer Morhen Scenes, so go read that lmao im sorry guys.
> 
> A Talk Has Been Had!! Jaskier's had a Revelation that geralt's been courting him?? You guys, this chapter was /so/ good for my soul, like a spa day minus the spa-going like, so good.  
> Self care is writing your very-hurt-character being comforted by a father figure. 
> 
> Lemme know what you guys though! We're sorta approaching the end here, I estimate about five more chapters to go, more or less. Eeee, I'm excited but also im gonna miss you guys so much ahhh <33 
> 
> Anyways, title from "Nightmare" by Halsey, that song makes me feel so powerful, it's honest to god amazing.


	22. Gotta see it to believe it (sky never looked so blue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] Geralt muses about jaskier's lack of passion during their past acts of sex

Geralt trails behind Jaskier carefully as they make their way up the mountain, instructing the bard where to put his feet, careful as he guides his friend. “Dammit, Jaskier!” His heart pounds, one hand clenched around his friend’s hip, his feet planted though Jaskier’s right foot hangs off the steep ledge path. “Be careful, for Melitele’s sake!” He hums in reply to Jaskier’s muttered apology, though he can tell the bard’s enjoying the dangerous trek, absolutely no self preservation. He sighs and continues on, Roach huffing as she trails behind him.

~~

Finally, they reach the door of the old keep, the old stone archway of the average stone door he finds such relief walking through welcomes them. It signifies another year survived, another year to return home and to forget the cruelties of the world. And this year, it welcomes an intended into its walls after so long. Geralt glances at Jaskier, watches the man pant against Roach, and chuckles silently as the bard curses witchers and their super-horses before dipping into a proper bow for Her Highness, Roach.

~~

He carries the heavier of their bags into their room as Jaskier unpacks bags of vegetables, fruits, and herbs (at the bard’s insistence) into the kitchen. Jaskier chats idly, mindlessly, of how excited he is to meet Geralt’s brothers, and the witcher can’t help the roll of his eyes, knowing Eskel and Lambert are going to be elated in meeting someone who talks as much as they do. He feels a weight lift off his chest as he watches Jaskier settle into the cold fortress, touching anything he can get his hands on, so many questions leaving his mouth that he witcher has barely any time to reply. It’s  _ incredible _ , watching Jaskier be himself after so long—heavenly to watch him flit about curiously, his blue eyes bright and shining. Geralt doesn’t even bother to keep his grin hidden.

~~

Soon, they begin to broom, Jaskier coughing idly in the dust the action brings up and insists he ties something around his face, only for the bard to roll his eyes. “If anything’s going to kill me, Geralt, it’s definitely  _ not _ going to be dust.”

His eyes sparkle with mirth as he splashes up soapy water onto Geralt and soon, they’re slipping and sliding in it, Jaksier gleefully laughing as the bucket’s tipped over his head. The witcher realizes with a start that the room only smells of soap and chamomile, he latter so strong, it leaves the witcher heady in its wake. There isn’t an ounce of fear and Geralt's heart beats nearly as quickly as a human’s as he realizes how blissful it is to be free of Jasksier’s fear. 

He barely catches Jasksier in time to save his poor nose, but in doing so, begins to fall backwards himself, reaching for his bard last-second, only to bring them both down onto the stone floors, Jaskier draped over Geralt, cackling at him.

The witcher finds his breath stolen away again as he watches Jaskier jab at him, lips pouting but drawn up at the sides, barely holding in laughter. His hair sticks up in the oddests of ways and as they both sit up, Geralt wants to draw him back, take him into the deepest parts of his chest and hide him away, preserved exactly like this. Happy, content,  _ playful _ . Oh, how he loves it. Loves him.

And then Jaskier’s kissing him.  _ Kissing him!  _ For the first time since they started growing closer to one another, the bard kisses him first, hand over the crook of Geralt’s neck to keep him there as if the witcher would ever want to step away. He’s in shock, lips parted, eyes widening as Jaskier half begs to be forgiven, only Geralt doesn’t want him to. 

He wants to be drawn into kisses, from dusk till dawn, to have Jaskier touch him without hesitation, to initiate their couplings, he wants so badly, having long given up in hinting to his bard that he can, that Geralt will let him. But hope strikes back so quickly in his chest that he’s barely thinking as he presses his lips back to Jaskier’s again, tugging him forward by the collar of his shirt as the bard desperately climbs into his lap. 

Is this what Jaskier was like when he  _ wanted? _ Had he not wanted Geralt in all the years they’d been fucking then? And what had changed? He shudders as Jasksier tugs at his hair, his heart stopping completely as Jaskier  _ moans _ . Oh  _ fuck. _ He could die a happy man like this, Jaskier enthusiastic for the first time in  _ ever _ , it’s blissful—the way he deepens the kiss, draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders, so careless, so care _ free _ .

They pull away from each other all too soon—he can hear Vesemir’s heavy footstep outside the door and finds his feet before helping Jaskier up. He breaks into a sprint as Vesemir chases after him, but can hear Jaskier’s beautiful laugh echo through the halls. It makes the promises of extra laps during training worth every step. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even gonna lie this is a filler but i wanted to write it okayyy!
> 
> i've been fucking giddy about your comments on the last chapter, im glad to hear that we're all Team Vesemir!! i love you guys <333
> 
> also all of you should know that in the witcher orgy scene—geralt was going to bottom for lambert, he's a switch, this information has nothing to do with anything but like—it's important to me that you know this xD
> 
> Lemme know what you thought of this lil chapter!
> 
> Title from "Canyon Moon" by Harry Styles!! Also someone please give me song suggestions i love the like four albums ive been listening to but oh my gods ive got every word memorized, i need something new xD


	23. Then I know that I'm always gonna have a lonely (lonely, lonely heart)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] geralt throw up (not graphic but still gross) mentions of retching and gagging. also mentions of rape and noncon.

Geralt stares at the now-empty door, Vesemir and Jaskier long gone. He jolts as he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Geralt?” he shakes it off and tugs his shirt back over his head. Jaskier  _ hadn’t wanted this? _ It had been a gift—Jaskier’d been so excited to meet his brothers and Geralt knew how much he liked being fucked by witchers, he knew that Jaskier adored attention on him while he was being pleasured and how aroused he was by danger.

It should've been  _ perfect _ , a roomful of witchers to please Jaskier, no matter how jealous and uncomfortable it made him to share his intended, no matter how much he himself didn’t want to be touched by anyone  _ but _ Jaskier, these days. The bard should have loved it, he’d smelt so strongly of surprise, his eyes shining with lust—it had to have been lust, what else could it have been—hurt?

He has to know.

~~

It’s painfully easy to listen in on the conversation. Years spent sneaking around this place—Geralt knows each creak and groan and exactly where to stand to be able to hear into Vesemir’s room, but far enough away so that his mentor doesn’t immediately pick up on his presence.

He tenses as he listens to Jaskiser sob—he  _ hates  _ that sound, the sound of his beloved being upset makes him want to storm into the room and to tug Jaskier into his lap, protect him from the evils that haunt him.  _ I’ve been so afraid, Vesemir, _ Geralt bites down on his lip. He still doesn’t know why the bard’s reeked of fear for  _ years _ , constantly lingering in the air around him, no matter how gentle and loving he’s been to his bard.

_ Of what he’ll do to me, of him holding me down and taking me— _ He nearly roars as he hears the words, raging at whoever’s threatened Jaskier without Geralt even  _ realizing _ . He’s been a horrible lover, not knowing that someone was following them? Threatening Jaskier? And why hadn’t he told him that he was in trouble? He’s saved Jaskier from numerous people, vengeful for having slept with their partners—the bard had always made it clear that he was in trouble, though a bright flush and a laugh had always pulled at his face after such a thrilling conquest.

_ He would never hurt me, but I’ve been so afraid… _

The statement throws the witcher off—if they don’t intend to harm Jaskier, then it can’t be a vengeful husband—maybe a past lover that hadn’t quite gotten over Jaskier’s charm? It seemed likely, he fell in love easily and it was just as easy to fall in love with the bard, Geralt knew from rather personal experience. Still, it doesn't make sense that Jaskier hadn’t told Geralt that they were being tracked; what makes even less sense is how the witcher hadn’t noticed Jaskier being in danger save for the bard’s fear. 

_ I hadn’t even realized Geralt’s been hurting me so without his even knowing of it _ .

The witcher freezes, his mind races as it tries to catch up to what he’s hearing—his heart crawls up his throat as he realizes it’s been  _ him _ .

It’s been him all along. How had he not seen? The flinches when he’d returned from a hunt, stinking so strongly of fear and surprise, the way his eyes lost their shine when Geralt had asked him what was wrong, never initiating their touches, not even their kisses—he slides down the stone wall, feeling himself  _ such _ a fool for thinking that someone would love him without fear, that someone would want him freely, a human, nonetheless, a  _ bard, _ of all people!

He feels his chest ache, eyes shining with tears he thought he’d lost long ago to the trials—he wipes them away angrily, he’s a  _ witcher _ , for fuck’s sake, he’s seen bodies burn, children die, he’s seen all they evils of the world, both human and monster. He isn’t about to  _ cry _ because he’s been fucking  _ lead on.  _ He stands, refusing to listen to any more of this  _ drivel _ . He knows now, and he’s smart enough to walk away before his heart can be battered anymore.

~~

Eventually, as Geralt gazes out at the violent storm, his hair whipping in the air of the open window, the pain gives way to guilt. All this time, Jaskier hadn’t wanted him, he’d been taking Jaskier—

He feels bile rise up and barely has enough time to bend over the ledge of the window of this bedroom and empty his stomach’s contents into the freshly fallen snow, retching, gagging as if with the vomit, the fact of his actions will be expelled from him, too. 

Unfortunately, as he tiredly collapses against the sill, leaning against the side of the window, it haunts him. 

He’d been taking Jaskier against his will all this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys were being TORMENTED by the Mystery of the Orgy Scene, I had to ease your pain. xD I've told multiple of you that you're going to want to strangle Geralt for his reasoning—tell me if I guess right or if his pov changed the rage and need to murder him xD i love you guys 
> 
> i'll be caught up on replying to comments soon! You guys are impossibly lovely, i //adore// all of your thoughts and ideas <33 
> 
> Title from "Lonely Heart" by 5SOS!


	24. I wake and hear you calling (and up those cliffs I climb)

Jaskier yawns as he walks downstairs from Vesemir’s room, having spent the night asleep on his shoulder. He has an unfortunate crick in his neck and he’s still exhausted from the crying, though his heart feels more light than it has in years. It’s hope, he realizes pleasantly—Geralt wants him, has been wanting him for the better part of the year, when the gift-giving and courting had started. He smiles at Vesemir, taking a warm bowl of porridge from his hands as he sits at the table, Eskel and Lambert both looking up at him though Geralt resolutely stares into his bowl.

“Bard, about last night—” Jaskier stiffens and the witcher’s nose flares as the scent of dread fills the air, something the bard himself cannot smell. “No, I wish to apologize.” Lambert nods as Eskel continues, “We had assumed you were willing, Geralt had thought you would enjoy joining the three of us. It was a dire mistake on our part, foregoing the asking of your consent and comfort. Our judgement was flawed, drunk as we were, but it’s no excuse—” 

Lambert cuts in with his own apology as Eskel glares at him for being interrupted. Jasksier, for his part, smiles warmly. “I understand. But try that again and I’ll cut you balls off.” 

Lambert snorts as he exclaims, _“_ I love him already; welcome to the pack, Bard. _”_ Vesemir glares at his pups, not forgiving them yet for their actions. Jaskier thinks the wolves will be getting an earful for it.

Geralt leaves the room wordlessly.

~~

Jaskier finds him in the ruins, sitting upon one of the lone, half-intact stone fences. He wraps his furs around himself tighter and as he approaches him and hops up to sit by him. “Geralt?” 

The witcher doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “Geralt, I—” Wordlessly, Geralt reaches a hand out, still refusing to look at him. “For Melitele’s sake, Geralt, would you just look at me? I’m not sure what’s got you in such a rotten mood, is it those drinks you had? Are you hungover? Can witchers even get hungover—Eskel and Lambert seem fine, or are you coming down with something, maybe the cold’s finally gotten into you—”

“The bracelet. Give it back.”

Jaskier straightens, protectively cupping his wrist with his other hand. “No. And we need to talk—”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve been fucking you and I thought it meant something more. It’s not. Give it back.” 

Vesemir’s words of _he’s grown to love you, too_ echoes faintly in his head. “I accept your courtship. But Geralt, I need to tell you—”

“Stop fucking leading me on, bard!” Geralt nearly roars, and with it, Jaskier is stunned into silence. “You could have just told me you had no wish to lay with me and none of this would have happened—” 

“How could I?” Though Jaskier’s yelling, the words are filled with anguish, begging for Geralt to understand. “It would have been a lie—I’ve wanted you since I fucking met you, Geralt! And even if I hadn’t wanted you sexually, I’ve been in love with you for a decade! And to see you in such pain from Yennefer, knowing I could help you, even if it hurt me—” 

“Leave Yenn out of this.” The fact that he’s defending her makes him seethe with anger, his hands clenching by his sides. 

“No, I will not _leave Yenn out of this_ . You may be blind to her and the way she tortures both you and herself, but I am _not!_ She caused this, and I know you know that, you _bastard_.” He’s shaking by the time he’s done. He takes a deep breath to collect himself. “We should have talked about this much sooner. If I had known you had gotten past taking advantage of my body to cure your broken heart and had started having sex with me because you wanted me—” 

“What would you have done? I thought you _knew_ , Jaskier, you’ve always been able to tell what I’m feeling, no matter how I tried hiding it. And then I became _obvious_ , I began worshipping you, your body, complementing your songs, and he courting—I loved you so, that I cared for you.” The witcher’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Instead I’ve been _raping_ you—do you understand? I’ve been fucking you against you wants, bard, though I was touching you thinking you wanted me, too. Our relationship, it’s been a lie—my loving you and you _fearing_ my each step, my every move. The fact is that I’ve hurt you and you’ve let me, lead me on, no matter how much you claim to love me—” After all this, he _dares_ question Jaskier’s love?

“ _Don’t._ Don’t you _dare_ doubt my love for you, I have not put myself through torture for nearly two years for your sake, only for you to _doubt me._ ” 

They lapse into silence as the last of the leaves on the trees ruffle in the cold breeze. Jaskier shivers and tugs his furs tighter around himself as they let minutes pass.

~~

“Jaskier…” The bard turns to him and looks up at him, only to be met with an open gaze, filled with emotion. He can’t help but tug Geralt into a quiet hug, the witcher burying his head against his shoulder. “Allow me another chance. To do this properly.” The bard lets out a shuddering breath, his arms tightening around his witcher.

“It will not be easy. I—” he pulls away, taking Geralt’s hand into his own and stares down at their hands. “My trust in you has taken a great beating—” he hears the witcher bite away a pained sound, “And I—I cannot have sex with you. For a while, I’m not sure how long, but till I learn to trust you. And maybe even then… we’d have to be careful.” 

He looks up at him, blue and amber so painfully vulnerable in the pale light of a winter day. “It will take years, Geralt, do you understand? _Years_ for me to learn away the habits I’ve started, to stop thinking that you’re using me. Will you stay?” He whispers, afraid of the answer. Geralt parts his lips to reply, but Jaskier quickly cuts him off with his voice. “Will you stay until I find myself again? Until I am the man you once knew instead of a shell of him as I am now? Will you stay by my side when I wake from nightmares of you fucking into me in Yennefer’s wake? When I reek so badly of fear and flinch away from you and cannot look you in the eye till minutes, hours, _days_ pass?” 

He swallows, exhaling softly as he gathers his strength to continue. “And will you wait for me to find the courage to kiss you? To touch you? Wait instead of finding another.” He wipes away tears from his cheeks, ones that’d begun to drip down from his eyes without his notice. His voice slips back into the raspy, pained whisper as he continues. “I cannot share you, if you truly wish to remain with me, wish to be mine—it would break me irreparably if I know of you touching another.” 

Neither of them moves as Geralt considers his words.

And then goes to wrap his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and bring him into an embrace, only for the bard to flinch and look at the witcher with guarded eyes, the same ones he’d stare into while rocking into him. He drops his hands, a shy, unsre smile tugs once at his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says and Jaskier finds hope _thrumming_ in his veins, his heart beating not with blood, but with possibility. He takes Geralt’s hand back into his, intertwining his litthe fingers with the witcher’s. “Yes,” he whispers back. “I’d do anything.”

And Jaskier thinks he could grow to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kno you be angy at geralt for not expressing guilt but look read the next chapter youll see what he trynna do and what he thinks. one day he will snivel and beg (in the future) im plan on it definitely, ill be posting more fics in this verse because you're all persuasive bastards and i am Weak i love you guys.
> 
> im sorta worried about this ending being too simplistic and not resolutory (is that a word ??) enough but then i remember that i started this for me, and it's fair that I end it in a way that i feel brings closure and hope to me. I do hope it does the same for you, let me know if you think it's trash, tho aha <333 
> 
> i adore hearing your guys' thoughts, though<33 always, i loveee your guys' comments and I—im gonna wait till i post the final chapter to get all sappy on you guys :((
> 
> also just kinda curious, ik a couple of you—english isn't your first language (which i only realized after you guys told me like lmao you guys are impeccable??)  
> My mothertongue is tamil but my first language is english (the one in which im most fluent in). I understand a decent amount of telugu (cant speak it, did when i was but a small babe and then forgot it as i grew up xD) and im learning french in school (im actually not the worst at it !!)   
> ik this is super persornal but i find it v. interesting; what other languages do you guys speak? no matter if english is your fist language or not. <33 
> 
> title from "The Rockrose and the Thistle" by The Amazing Devil.


	25. And I find you with a thimble, weeping (may I, I ask, may I?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] geralt contemplates suicide, kinda. skip from "He can’t even stand" to "override" following paragraph is safe to read. skip paragraph 4 (excluding one-line paragaph), too.

Geralt stares into his porridge as if it had personally punched him in the dick. Around him, Eskel and Lambert eat their breakfast without complaint, oddly reserved for their first day back at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir pours another bowl of porridge as the footsteps descend the stone steps, a quiet yawn escaping the only human present in the keep. Geralt glares into his bowl harder, his skin prickling uncomfortably as Jaskier sits too close to him. He shifts away uncomfortably. Anger pools in his stomach—how fucking dare Jaskier sit so close to him with such easy comfort, as if the conversation had never happened—as if he fucking trusted Geralt after all this. 

He doesn’t look up when Eskel and Lambert apologize, though he can feel Vesemir’s eyes burn into his bowed head. He keeps himself from baring his teeth wordlessly leaves—he can’t fucking take it. Jaskier sitting there, right next to him as if Geralt hadn’t tortured him for two years, nearly, as if they’re still lovers. He doubts they’re even still friends. He’s never deserved Jaskier’s friendship, he had always been too bright, too joyful and hopeful and Geralt had been a sick, brooding mess, condoned to kill, be killed, or to be feared. He can’t even stand the idea of himself, of his own existence. Witchers are rather difficult to kill, but what’s more difficult is killing themselves—reflexes much too quick and too strong to suppress and override.

He walks into snow, wearing the wrong boots and the wrong clothes but the chill of the air barely bothers him. He’s hurt, hurt that Jaskier hadn’t put an end to this a long time ago, hurt that the bard had taken advantage of him—he sits on the ruins of the fence, a walk away from the keep. The distance is good. Right now, he doesn’t think he can even share air with Jaskier. Deep ache seeps into his chest as he takes a long breath of the chilly air, exhaling it between clenched teeth. All that hope gone to dust, the stupid wishful thinking, the dreams—how he’d imagined a coastside cottage, just the two of them for winters to come, inviting his family there, having a home. And waking up to a warm bed, Jaskier drooling into the pillow beside him, gangly limbs haphazardly curled around the witcher. And cubs, oh he’d gone so far as to imagine having children—retiring with Jaskier, golden bands on each of their fingers. His throat seizes up as he remembers the hope, of being happy, being loved… all of it only to be built upon lies. In love with a man he couldn’t possibly have, dreaming of a future that was no more than just dreams.

An agonized sound leaves his lips, harsh and loud as he grieves for his dreams, grieves for his friend.

Oh what has he done to Jaskierr. He feels bile rise to his throat again as he remembers, each touch he’d pressed into Jaskier’s skin, each worshiping whisper, each bruise and each kiss. He fucking hates himself and though witchers aren’t easily killed, especially by height, he wishes the fence was much, much taller. Guilt wracks at him, he’d hurt Jaskier by simply loving him, by showing him he’s cared, and gods what kind of man deserves to love when he hurts his beloved by doing so? 

He hearts familiar footsteps behind him before Jaskier comes into view, wrapped in so many furs, his nose tinged red in the cold—his heart flutters at how adorable he is before the flutter dies like a butterfly crushed. He holds out his hand and refuses to look at him, ashamed to look into those blue eyes he’d stolen such innocence and happiness from in his own blind greed to love and be loved. 

Geralt cuts Jaskier’s rambling as he demands the bracelet. He’s been ignorant for so long—the only thing that had been weighing down on Jaskier was him, he finally understands that now.

It’s time to set his little lark free. 

Only, Jaskier wraps his hand over his wrist, protective of his shackles.

Geralt doesn't understand. Not as the bard accepts his courting, and even less when Jasksier explains the lot of it, about Yenn, playing decoy, subjecting himself to Geralt’s touches each time. He’s lost and confused. The only way to stop someone from hurting is to leave them, and when Geralt’s fucking trying to stop hurting him, to let him fly away, he fucking refuses. 

Geralt wants to scream. He wants to fucking roar with frustration and confusion but Jaskier sits by him, explaining, talking and Geralt… settles. Listens. 

Eventually, they lapse into silence.

He knows Jasksier won’t talk again, not till he says something. And though Geralt’s heart beats ridiculously quickly, and his palms sweat, he manages to croak out a “Jaskier” around the frog that’s found a residence in his throat. He watches as Jaskier’s eyes soften and his arms wrap around Geralt, blessing him with his touch though they both know he doesn’t deserve it, not after what he’s done. He inhales the bard’s scent, finding comfort in it. He’s selfish, he should walk away, be stronger, be smarter. Instead, his lips part and he begs.

“Allow me another chance. To do this properly.” He should be throwing himself to his knees, sniveling, begging, but Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath and tightens his embrace and he can’t help but sink into it. 

And all too soon, he’s pulling away. “It won’t be easy—” Geralt opens his lips, eager, hope swirling in the pit of his stomach as he goes to promise, to beg, only Jaskier speaks over him. He thumbs over Jaskier’s knuckles as he watches him and listens. And once Jaskier's done, he takes a quiet moment to himself, thinking.

His first instinct is to say yes, but instinct had gotten him pain and miscommunication with his love. So he thinks, and considers seriously if he’ll be able to be the man Jaskier requires him to be. Considers if he has the patience, the strength and realizes soon that—

He does. All the patience he hasn’t had before, his relationship with Yenn, as quick and unstable as a flame in the wind. And with Jaskier, the words he’d never figured out how to use. He knows he still has much to learn, but he now has the patience and maturity to do it. 

He goes to bring Jaskier into an embrace, only to stop short, a self conscious and shy smile tugging on his lips as he realizes that his bard is hesitant to be touched. Gods, they have so much to talk about, to discuss. But for now, he lets Jaskier take his hand into his own and intertwine their fingers before he whispers with his whole heart, “Yes. I’d do anything.”

And he knows he truly would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and you gently gift it to me_   
>  _'cause you've no clue how to sew_   
>  _and i know the kindest thing_   
>  _I pray to god it's the kindest thing_   
>  _I know the kindest thing_   
>  _is to never leave you alone._
> 
> Porridge-dick-punch line was inspired by LadyAhiru, of whom I have a vague memory of wanting to punch Geralt's dick. 
> 
> Ooohhh boy. This chapter was something huh. I kinda liked how we ended this journey (or, a part of it) with geralt's pov, seeing how much he can actually Think, and how much he's learned. Also how fucking satisfying is it to finish on such a nice number, even like 25? it feels so complete? just me? Man I'm also kinda miffed that this fic only lasted 15 days before I finished it?? It feels like so long but was only like half a month?? 
> 
> This lil baby fic of mine was an idea that i wanted to read, but no one had written it so i sat down, cracked my knuckles, drank too much coffee, fixated on this anddd here we are! I thought it was going to be a oneshot, or a max of like six pages—but here we are, twenty. five. chapters to my name. 
> 
> I've never been really much of a solo writer, finding it impossible to maintain interest in my work unless it was an rp. this this fic is like—to me, it's kinda crazy I wrote it. and then a couple of you started liking it, and then a couple more, till i had a crazy (crazy amazing) bunch of you guys leaving hearts, screams, death threats (lookin' at you, winter xDD), and fucking //analyses// (im still starastuck over the straight up analyses you guys leave me <33333) and overall, just enjoying this Angst Train as much as I was, wanting to read this as much as i wanted to write it. gods, it was (it /is/) incredible.
> 
> when I say I love you guys, I mean it. Without out your comments and questions and thoughts and ideas, I would've quit this a long, long time ago. You guys inspired me—not only to write and keep writing, but plot-wise, too, the simplest of comments (no such thing really) made me change the entire course of my story, and beyond that, made me want to explore more of it, beyond this fic. 
> 
> I guess, what I'm trying to say is—thank you. Even if you felt your contribution was inconsequential, I assure, without doubt, that it was not. Along the journey of writing for myself, I started writing for you guys, too, and having you behind me was /key/ to writing this story. I cant thank you all enough.
> 
> this has been such a journey of inspiration and kinship with you guys. I love you all.
> 
> The angst train will now be stopping for a brief interlude (probably days, lmao who am i kidding i cant stop myself from writing). It'll probably be renamed to the "Healing Train." I'll be welcoming you all aboard very soon. <333


	26. Rest my head at night content (knowing where my marbles went)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] they talk about consent and avoiding non-consensual activities

The next day is filled with hesitant touches and shy glances. Jaskier feels like a boy in love again, a soft smile gracing his lips as he reads poetry in the library, watching Geralt sit at the table, nose buried in a book, out of the corner of his eyes. He himself is curled into a worn old armchair, but it’s comfortable in it’s softness, nealy swallowing him in. He turns another page and glances up at Geralt, only to catch the witcher’s eyes trained on him, his expression so soft, it disrupts the butterflies in stomach into fluttering around again. They’re so careful around one another, still not knowing quite where they stand with each other, but they know they’re wanted, that they’re loved. He winks, and Geralt turns away with a faint blush accentuated by the candlelight. The door creaks open—Jaskier smiles at Vesemir, who looks rather pleased by the two of them, though his expression is quickly schooled.

“Lambert! Bring Eskel; join us in the library.” He takes his seat just as the two witchers come stumbling in, Eskel’s clothes smeared with dirt and Lambert sporting a cut on his cheek. Jaskier rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips before he turns to Vesemir. Like this, the witchers sat down, attention keen on their mentor, they look like the pups that Vesemir endearingly calls them to be.

Vesemir takes a breath and straightens, eyes narrowing. “Consent. Apparently, none of you fucking know what it means—and if you do, do not realize it applies to you as well.” He sighs, glancing at Jaskier before continuing on. “Consent is not assuming you partner wants you,” Jaskier notices Geralt stiffen out of the corner of his eyes, “It is not _anything_ but the words ‘Yes, I want you.’”

Lambert straightens, confusion evident on his face, “And what if they don’t say anything at all?” 

“Asking for consent can be awkward and not always the most helpful—we’ve all lived long enough to know that sexual relationships between witchers and humans are strained and filled with fear at _best_ , outright hated at worst—and humans are not always truthful when faced with fear. You are all capable of smelling when someone is not interested in you, trust your instinct, for Melitiele’s sake.”

The witchers nod, Geralt giving a brief hum of acknowledgement under his breath. “And—this might be one of the more important points, knowing how we raised you to be all-sacrificing men in the face of any situation—if you have the _slightest_ disinterest in having sex with someone, no matter for what reason, you are allowed to say _no_. Sex is to be enjoyable, not a transacation, not something forced or unwanted by _any_ of the parties involved. Understood?” 

A brief chorus of _yeses_ fills the air, and Vesemir turns to Jaskier. “Understood, Julian? You will not lay with anyone for anything but pleasure.” The bard flushes, though his eyes are fierce when he nods yes.

“Good.”

“Can we go now?” Lambert _whines_ , and Vesemir dismisses them with a flick of his wrist, though the youngest witcher is already on his feet, tugging Eskel up. “Come on, you fucking bag of dicks—you’ve grown quite old in your days, Eskel.” Eskel tackles him when they’re barely out of the door, punching Lambert before running off. “Bastard!” Jaskier laughs as Lambert takes after him. Vesemir, ever the tired dad, lets out a deep sigh and leaves after one last glare at Geralt.

His white wolf approaches him slowly, sinking to his knees in front of Jaskier’s chair. “I—” he looks so woefully lost, hands pooled in his lap as he stares at the floor. Jaskier cups his cheek gently and turns his head to face him. “What is it, dear heart?” 

“I never intended to hurt you.” Jaskier presses a kiss to the man’s forehead.

“I know, my love, it’s alri—”

“No,” he looks angry at himself, lips turned down and Jaskier desperately wants his smile, “No, I—I should have asked. Every time. Each touch—I… I’m so sorry.” Jaskier scoots over in his armchair, patting at the space beside him for Geralt to sit.

“I should have told you, that you were hurting,” thick fingers intertwine with his own, “it’s not your fault, not entirely. It’s on both of us—”

“But, Jaskier, I—” 

“No. You heard what Vesemir said. It was on both of us.” Geralt looks at him a while longer before relaxing into Jaskier’s embrace, turning his head onto the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier presses kiss to the witcher’s head. They stay there till the sun rises again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the comfort train! 
> 
> I think I just wanna continue this work rather than add separate installments. Uh, so here we are<3 
> 
> not gonna lie, this chapter was painfully boring to write but i think they needed this conversation; hopefully, my not-having-fun didn't reflect in the quality of this chapter (though i think it did :(( 
> 
> also does anyone wanna beta for me? i ask for is some brutal honesty and looking into my grammar and word choice <3 i have no patience to read my own works apparently xD
> 
> love you guys<3 title's from "Marbles" by TAD


	27. We don't know where we're going (but we know where we belong)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]] jaskier talks about past child abuse and neglect, where he and his sister were starved and beaten. Please feel free to skip over this chapter, what you need to know is that [SPOILERS] there's a lot of cuddling, jask cries, feels guilty he left his sister, and geraskier do a lot of communicating with things like "can i touch you?" and geralt really tries.

The rest of their days are filled with learning. Geralt learns that his bard is awfully ticklish, that the long, deep scar that drags along the side of his lower stomach was from where he got stabbed for defending witcher-kind. When Geralt frowns and worries, Jaskier only laughs— _ “The man got it worse than I did _ ,” he flicks his hand out in a familiar motion,  _ “threw a knife at his skull, bastard deserved it, _ ” and the witcher thinks that the man has done worse than just say a couple bad words about a witcher, especially when Jaskier mentions that his daughter had been grateful enough to give him a free room for the night in her own home. He’s proud of his feral bastard of a bard, who sits across from him, eyes glinting in delight at having killed a man.

“And this one,” he shows the witcher a small scar on the inside of his elbow, “Emelia threw me into a brawl for having dyed her whites pink, oh you should’ve seen her face, Geralt!” 

Geralt also learns that Jaskier misses his sister greatly, and that he hasn’t seen his childhood friends in years. The witcher opens his arms in invitation and Jaskier slowly sinks into his embrace, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder as he loses himself to memories. Idly, the witcher kisses his forehead and runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, knowing there’s nothing more he can do. It pains him to see Jaskier grow so somber and melancholic, but he knows that this is a part of their growth, that his friend is allowing himself to be seen.

~~

Vesemir’s only just let them go after a morning of training. Geralt, bruised and bloody as he is, sinks into the pool farthest away from the door, reveling in the steaming water that’s on the right side of too hot. The four pools to his left decrease in heat, the one by the door being the coolest. 

Geralt sighs as he leans back into the hot water, eyes fluttering shut. Somewhere above him, he can hear Lambert and Eskel fuck. Unsubtle bastards, no matter how hard Vesemir pushes them during training, they're always fucking horny by the end of it. Geralt’s always supposed it’s the tension of staring at someone over crossed swords or holding them down, pressed together in a wrestle. The white wolf used to join them, but he has a different conquest, a lover. 

His lips quirk up as said lover enters the large room, only to realize his bard smells of sadness. 

“Jaskier?” The bard looks down at him, blue eyes laden by what looks to be the weight of the world. Geralt shifts over a spring to the left, easily throwing himself over the shared wall of the two pools. Jaskier strips and slips in beside Geralt, both of them sitting on the carved bench along the wall, not quite touching each other. He’s silent, water lapping at his shoulders, and looks lost in his own mind. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks again. Sad eyes turn up to meet his own. Geralt stiffens. Fuck. Fuck, has he done something wrong? He thought he’d been doing good, using his words— “Jaskier, what’s…” he pauses, looking for the word. He is trying, though it feels awkward and unfamiliar, “wrong?” 

Jaskier’s face takes on a small smile, as if he’s proud of Geralt’s efforts. The witcher relaxes minutely, one possibility of the cause of Jaskier’s sadness eliminated. 

“Was thinking. About things,” Jaskier mutters, waving his arm though the water idly. He looks so defeated, shoulders slumped as he stares into the pool. “About Lettenhove.” Ah. The bard turns to look up at him again. “Can I come closer? I’d like to be held—if you’d like to hold me, I mean, you don’t have to, of course, I just—” 

“Jaskier. Come here.” The bard lets out a breath and goes to straddle Geralt’s upper thighs, tucking his arms between their chests as he rests his head against the witcher’s shoulder.

Intimacy, Geralt thinks, as he wraps his arms around his bard’s back, feels better than he could have possibly ever imagined. He runs his hand down Jaskier’s back, comforting him as he finds his words again.

“Jaskier, do you want to talk about—” 

“Melitele, I’m not fucking fragile, Geralt, I—fuck.” 

Jaskier relaxes back against him. Minutes pass without even the sound of shifting water. “I’m sorry,” the bard sighs at last. “I’m sorry. I’ve never really… talked to anyone about this. About them.”

Geralt hums, and pulls Jaskier into a tighter embrace. “I’ve got you,” he mumbles. Words are important, he’s learnt, more important than any action could be. Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s shoulder as he tries to figure out how to broach the topic. “We can talk about it later, Jaskier.”

“I know, I just—It’s time you know. I want to know you, and for you to know me, it’s important to our—” his voice softens, “—relationship.”

“But we could wait, I’d wait for you.” Geralt can feel Jaskier’s smile against his neck.

“Emelia and I—our parents. They never loved us,” Jaskier straightens, taking Geralt’s hands into his own as he continues, casually intertwining their fingers together. “We were meant to be seen, not heard.” 

The witcher brings his hands up to kiss the back of Jaskier’s knuckles, letting him know that he’s still listening, grounding his bard.

“We were just  _ things _ , nothing more than the jewels and gold they owned, existing only to be shown off,” Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath. “When Emelia and I were—gods, six? Seven? Unholily young, anyways—they stopped feeding us. Some shit about us being too chubby.” He can’t help the wry laugh that works its way out of him, “Could you imagine? They wanted to rid us of  _ baby fat _ , Geralt. Because we didn’t look  _ ‘perfect’ _ enough _. _ ” 

Geralt stiffens at the confession.

“We didn’t go without food entirely, the servants who took pity and dared to sneak in food did what they could. But we were…” he trails off, staring into space as he remembers his pain. Geralt’s chest aches to pull him close again, to sink into the water, Jaskier safe in his arms and to never leave. Jaskier blinks and comes back to himself, looking into Geralt’s eyes as he tries to ground himself. “Oh, Geralt,” he breathed out, grieving for a childhood he’d never gotten. Jaskier clears his throat, “Eventually, all the servants that were helping Emelia and I, they were ‘sent away,’ I remember the beating my mother gave me for asking after them, repeating over and over in the _calmest_ manner, _proper_ _children aren’t meant to ask questions, proper children are meant to be seen, not heard, Julian._ ” 

He lets out a dry chuckle and looks back up at Geralt from whom his sight had wandered away.

“Eventually, I started stealing, leading to more beatings; I gave Emelia anything I could find, our parents were  _ horrible _ , Geralt. We were underfed, uncared for and eventually, I left for Oxenfurt, as soon as I turned sixteen.”

Unshed tears shine in the bard’s eyes, “And I left her behind. I left my baby sister behind with them and I never—” his words catch in his throat as he shakes, hands coming up to cover his face as he lets out a sob, wet and loud. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers out, as Geralt cups the back of his throat and brings him closer, holding him as he cries. He isn’t sure what to say.

“It’s… okay. To cry. Thank you for telling me.” 

He knows it’s not enough, but he lets Jaskier cry on his shoulder, the bard’s hand coming to hug him, legs still stradling over either side of Geralt’s thighs. They stay there for hours, Jaskier crying against him, till their fingers prune and the bard runs out of tears. He’s exhausted, slumped over Geralt’s torso like he can’t move, sniffling. Geralt shifts from where he’s sitting. 

“I’m going to lift you up,” he whispers, “I’ll set you down against a wall and dry you with my towel. Is that okay?” Jaskier nods, his throat aching. 

“Okay, I’m going to move now.”

He stands, Jaskier’s legs hooked around Geralt’s, the witcher holding him up by his back and his waist. Water drips from them as Geralt carefully walks them out of the water and sets his friend down, patting him dry as Jaskier watches him from under heavy eyelids. He dresses him before doing the same himself and gently takes Jaskier’s hand. “Can you walk?” Jaskier nods, tugging the witcher’s arm around his shoulder and tucking himself close into him.

“Is this alright?” Geralt replies with an affirmative hum as they walk back upstairs. 

~~

Dinner’s eaten in their room, accompanied by a crackling fire, and they retire early, Jaskier slipping under the covers and Geralt climbing in behind him.

Geralt closes his eyes. Remembering is painful, he should’ve known. Jaskier was obvious—always letting the witcher eat first when food was scarce, dressed to the nines no matter what run-down shithole they ended up in, hair done immaculately, a bright smile on his face. But the idea of his flirty, confident bard being so subdued in his childhood—well, the abuse only explained why Jaskier was so loud, why he soaked up all the attention in the room when he played, why he chattered on for  _ hours _ , so used to people not listening to him but never stopping his words nonetheless. He turns to his side, head resting on his palm as he looks at Jaskier under the moonlight. 

“Are you awake?” He whispers. Jaskier drags open an eye, the other lazily closed as a brief smile stretches on his face. He hums in reply.

“I need to tell you something,” both of Jaskier’s eyes drag open, attentive as he waits for Geralt to continue. “I’m sorry— for the way I treated you,” he winces, “not—not the sex. Before that. When I didn’t listen to you, made you walk for hours, days sometimes. I…” He trails off. 

He had been cruel. He knows that now, that it’s not proper for a human to do such things, and it is  _ worrying _ when Jaskier did it without serious complaint, “I was—bad.” 

Geralt wants to berate himself on his choice of words, but guilt chokes what little synonyms he has into simplicity. Jaskier inches closer to him and presses a kiss to his nose.

“I understand, love. Thank you.” Jaskier blinks up at him, eyes heavy with sleep. Geralt hums as Jaskier wiggles closer.

“Can I…” Jaskier hums for him to continue, eyes closed, “cuddle—cuddle you?” The bard wordlessly nudges himself between Geralt’s arms, resting his head on the crook of the witcher's shoulder, curling into him. 

  
Geralt snuggles impossibly close and wraps his arms around Jaskier before falling into a contented sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, say hello to JewFlexive!! They're my beta; you can tell how incredible they are simply by reading this chapter, i mean like, it's so much better than my previous chapters, they're very much godssend! They're on tumblr under @jew-flexive and their ao3's JewFlexive so go give them some love <33
> 
> A couple of you asked about oxenfurt and lettenhove when jaskier was like "pft, i'd never go back" here's an explanation!
> 
> Also! I made a tumblr against my better judgement, the place sounds like a train-wreck but I've joined! So come say hi, I'm under @persony-pepper, and you know I adore talking to you guys <3 
> 
> also, I'm accepting prompts (on tumblr and on here), both based this verse and whatever else you want, i dont have any triggers so dont worry and don't be shy :D
> 
> I know you guys want a yenn/geraskier meeting, wolf orgy, geralt begging for forgiveness, also i want to write the first time they have sex again (featuring top jaskier!) and jask having a nightmare about geralt. So that's what i've got planned sorta right now, if there's anything else you wanna see, leave it in the comments or in my ask box? 
> 
> title from "Sweet Creature" by Harry Styles; i find that this song fits this chapter so well?
> 
> Let me know what you guys thought! <33
> 
> Also!!! Does anyone have any feral cat name ideas? It can be your own pet's name or not <33


	28. I don't wanna make you feel bad (I've been trying hard not to act a fool)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]] mentions of rape

Jaskier sips his tea as he watches the witchers train. Vesemir sits by him, barking orders and corrections as the wolves spar, swords clanging against each other, reflecting the bright sunlight. Winter’s finally chosen to give way to slightly warmer weather, and though it is by no means temperate , Jaskier can at least feel his fingers without having to don gloves. The frost’s been melting throughout the week, and more likely than not, they’ll be leaving Kaer Morhen tomorrow. He’s rather excited, after all, they’re going to be searching for his sister. 

He watches as Eskel ducks and rolls away, Geralt’s footing sure as he lunges forward after him, only to be deterred by the other witcher grasping his arm and twisting his sword out of his hand. Weaponless, Geralt tackles Eskel to the ground, wrestling to render the other weaponless and soon, they’re both fighting hand to hand, twisting in each other’s grips. The bard has barely any time to shout a warning before Lambert jumps onto the white wolf’s back.

Vesemir leaves with a long-suffering sigh, leaving his pups to their brawl. Each time Jaskier thinks Geralt is pinned down and Eskel and Lambert have won, he somehow finds his feet again, throwing punches and moving so quickly that it sometimes takes a second for the bard to realize what he’s just done.

Jaskier watches with a mix of awe and horror.

The reminder of Geralt’s strength is only intensified when the witcher comes out on top, kneeling over his brothers’ bodies, their chests heaving. His knuckles are bruised and a cut on his cheek is bleeding sluggishly. Lambert’s bruised face glares up at Geralt and Eskel spits out blood before they both give in and tap the dusty ground twice. 

He half expects Geralt not to let them up, to keep going and beat them into bloody pulp because he obviously  _ can. _ And the age-old fear is back, and Jaskier begins to think that Geralt’s soft touches have been a lie, that he was only wearing down Jaskier’s defenses,  _ putting up with him _ so that Geralt can take him again. Jaskier takes an instinctive step back as Geralt walks towards him with a bright grin, flushed, not quite sweaty from the aborted training. 

Jaskier nods when Geralt asks if he can hold him, freezes as the witcher gently slides his arms over Jaskier’s hips though he’s said yes. And then Geralt’s kissing him, soft, gentle, but the bard can’t stand it, the touches, they’re just  _ lies _ to get into his pants again. He pulls away and watches as the rush of victory in Geralt’s eyes flickers away to concern and confusion. The witcher’s hands fall away and he takes a step back. “Why did you say yes?’” 

The bard has no answer, staring at the witcher’s hands before ripping his eyes away to look up at him. 

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier whispers, taking a step back. “Of fuck, Geralt, I— I can’t do this.” And, like the absolute moron he is, he runs away.

~~ 

He doesn’t come back till the sun’s rays begin scattering through the clouds. By the time he makes it back from the far side of the ruins, his skin is slightly blue and his hands are numb. Geralt sits outside the front gate, eating breakfast, their bags packed beside him.

And just like that, things are awkward again. They’re silent as he saddles Roach, as they say their goodbyes to the rest of the wolves, Eskel leaning forward to whisper a small  _ talk to him _ before nodding his goodbye. Vesemir wraps him in a hug and Lambert tells him that he better come back next year. It feels like a threat, even though it most obviously is an invitation. 

~~

He knows why Geralt isn’t talking to him. He knows why he isn’t touching him, and Jaskier’s glad for it, though he fears the witcher will leave him for the slip up. He pretends to work on a composition to keep his fingers busy, flicking away at his lute as they walk the trail, heading towards Lettenhove.

~~ 

Unfortunately, misery keeps knocking at his door. They’ve only just stopped at the tavern for the night, exhausted, not by the walking, but the heavy air between him and Geralt. The witcher’s so weary, waiting for Jaskier to speak, knowing he won’t get a truthful answer if he asks the bard what’s wrong as he is now. Jaskier thinks, as soon as the maid at the door goes away, he’ll have to talk to Geralt. 

Jasksier sighs as he stares up at the witcher, who answers the door, freezing as he sees whoever it is on the other side. 

“Geralt?” He stands and approaches the door, only to have it slammed shut. He looks panicked, a light widening of his eyes as he takes a step away from the door.

“I didn’t invite her here, I don’t—” Jaskier throws the door back open, only to find Yennefer on the other side, staring at him lazily. Anger burns inside him like leaves caught in a fire, catching quickly and burning deeply. Like,  _ fuck _ Geralt hadn’t invited her here. He wordlessly shoves past her— he can’t fucking deal with this.

He makes it out of the tavern before Geralt catches up to him, the witcher catching his wrist before letting go when Jaskier flinches, as if the quick movement had burned his skin. 

“Jaskier, stop this I—” Geralt looks lost,  _ guilty _ at having been caught, “I didn’t invite her, she just—” 

“Oh fucking please, Geralt. You’ve finally figured out that I’m going to take too much work after last evening—” His arms are thrown out, fists clenched in frustration, his voice on the side of feral as he tries to keep his head on his shoulders. “Fucking great, good for you, but I’m not coming back when she leaves you again—” 

“Jaskier,” he begs, “ _ Jaskier _ ,” he  _ pleads _ .

“— so you can fucking rape me again!” It’s a low fucking blow, and he regrets it as soon as he yells it, watching how Geralt retreats like he’s been fucking  _ slapped _ , his expression so  _ wounded _ that all Jaskier can do is pant, frozen in place.

“Geralt—” He takes a step forward, reaching out to his witcher, only for the witcher to stiffen. He stares down at the ground and Jaskier’s not sure if he’s ashamed or angry, but he know’s he’s so fucking  _ hurt _ . After all that time it had taken Jaskier to convince Geralt that their past relationship had been both of their faults,  _ hours _ spent communicating, the bard’s  _ shattered _ their progress. 

Still, Geralt looks back up at him after a fragile moment passes. He still looks so vulnerable, eyes open in such pain and shock though his shoulders are tense and his body is rigid with tension. 

“Come back,” Geralt says quietly, “When you can. We—” the words look hard for him to say, still new to the idea of using words to resolve emotional turmoil rather than sweeping it under the rug and pretending it doesn’t exist. “We need to talk. About this.” 

Jaskier nods, and walks off into the night.

~~

“Yennefer,” Geralt sits across from her, his jaw clenched. It’s not her fault, he knows, it’s not anyone’s, but he can’t help the irritation he feels for her. “What are you doing here?” 

She stares down at him, an eyebrow raised. “What do you think I’m doing here, Geralt?” 

The witcher hums into his ale, buying time with a sip.

“Jaskier and I—” 

“Look, I don’t care,” she leans forward. “Your fucking bond called me here, it’s been calling me for  _ weeks _ , now here I am. Are we going to fuck or not?”

“We’re not,” he replies. Yenn looks at him, unimpressed.

“Then why’re we here, Geralt?”

“The bond,” he starts, wincing, not quite sure how to put this. Well, delicately has never been his way of doing things. “We’re still tied together, you fate is still connected to mine, but not… romantically. It never has been, Yennefer, all this hopeless fucking we’ve been doing is because you’re torturing yourself trying to bear child with the only man that’s tied to you, but our bond isn’t enough to do that, and me trying to find a partner in you— I was looking in the wrong place for the love I felt.”

Her shoulders sag, and she looks so defeated that Geralt can’t help but want to reach out to her, though he restrains himself, knowing full well it’ll be unwelcome. She nods and hands him a Xenovox, her eyes soft, as if she’s wondering at just how much they’ve both grown. 

“If you need anything,” she says, her voice gentle—Geralt knows that if he were a few months younger, he would’ve fallen in love with her all over again, just from that look. They spend the evening reminiscing in silence, Yenefer’s hand over the back of Geralt’s as they remember what they were and what they never could‘ve been.

And soon, he’s left alone, only his ale for company as he waits for Jaskier’s return. 

~~ 

Jaskier comes back to the room, scoffing as he realizes Yennefer is gone. 

“Great,” he sits, sinking into the overstuffed mattress, firelight too bright in his eyes, staring up at Geralt. “She left without a fuck? You usually look more of a kicked puppy when she leaves after one.” 

He knows he’s being defensive, being dumb as he riles his witcher on, but he’s hurt, hurt that he’d invite her here after all the healing they’d done.

Geralt looks at him wordlessly from where he’s sat in a wooden chair by the fire. Jaskier sighs and leans back onto his elbows.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says. He knows he’s being defensive, that he’s lashing out with his  _ I’m fucking over it _ attitude, that the apology means nothing, that he’s on the brink of breaking them and everything they’ve worked for.

Apparently, Geralt knows, too. He straightens, his hands clasping together tighter. 

“Jaskier, stop,” he pauses, “Tell me what happened— after training, what… ” he trails off. The bard hesitates for a second before pulling his knees to his chest, the confident front he’d put up falling away.

“I was scared,” Jaskier mumbles. Though the man doesn’t even blink, Jaskier can see the way his eyes give away his dismay. Melitele, he can’t do this— he goes to stand, only for Geralt’s eyes to trace after him. It’s all the assurance the bard needs, knowing that the witcher respects him enough to let him go and trust that he’ll come back even if he leaves. He sighs and sits back down. 

“Alright. I was scared of you, the way you fought your brothers—” he braves on, his tongue dragging over his lip betraying his angst, “If you could hurt them like that, and you love them like family, then imagine what you could do to me—” Jaskier looks away, a dry smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to say anything, go after Yenn, she came here for you, it’s alright. I’ll understand.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, pretending as if he hasn’t already determined that Jaskier’s too much work and not worth the effort. 

“Yenn and I are— friends.” 

The bard looks on unamused, of course, this is how the witcher goes about telling Jaskier he’s figured things out romantically with his witch.

“We’re not… we broke things off. Completely. Just friends.” 

Jaskier blinks, leaning forward.

“Is this some fucking joke?” He winces as the witcher flinches. “Sorry, that was unfair of me.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says, so quiet Jaskier nearly doesn’t hear him. “Not on purpose, never, I’d—” 

The bard sighs, curling his arms around himself tighter.

“I know,” he says, equally quiet. “I know, and I hate myself for not trusting you.” 

He rocks forward, string into the fire, too ashamed to meet Geralt’s eyes, too afraid of seeing anger and frustration there.. 

“When I said that about—” his face twists into a grimace, “—about you raping me, I— it wasn’t right of me. And to assume you’d invited Yenn to—” 

“I didn’t. We  _ are _ friends, but not… like we were before. She came because the bond called.” 

Ah fucking great. Jaskier sighs, dejected as he leans back onto the bed, his leg hanging off the edge of it. He’s fucked it all up so badly, Geralt’s going to leave him any second and—

“Can I touch you?” Jaskier’s head snaps up.

“You still want to—” 

“Hug you,” Geralt says at the same time, in way of explanation. Jaskier’s miffed, trying to wrap his head around how his witcher still trusts him with the expectation of being truthful, much less, still  _ wants _ him after this wreck. Still, the idea of being touched right now makes his skin crawl an dread fill his chest, but he owes it to his friend, to their relationship—

“No,”

—to say no.

“Not now,” and for some reason, it brings a proud smile onto Geralt’s face, the same quirk of his lips, the same victory shining in his eyes that Jaskier had seen when the witcher had knelt over his brothers.

“Get to bed, then,” Geralt replies. “We’ve an early morning tomorrow, for Emelia.” 

It’s so simple. The witcher lays out his bedroll, sits on top of it, and slips his eyes closed as Jaskier gapes at him. Surely, he can’t have been forgiven that easily for his slip up and yet, as Geralt falls into meditation, relaxed and trusting, as if he hadn’t just been called a fucking  _ rapist _ ! 

“Geralt?” Amber eyes flicker open, waiting for Jaskier to continue.

“Aren’t you mad? Hurt?” Jaskier can’t help but ask, rendered succinct in shock of the witcher’s actions, so completely forgiving. 

“No.” 

Jaskier cocks his head. 

“Why?”

“Because I love you.” 

And then Geralt’s eyes slip closed again, as if it’s enough reason, a perfectly good explanation. 

As Jaskier leans back into the overstuffed mattress, staring at the dingy ceiling, the bard thinks it might be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Healing includes setbacks <33 poor boys but they did sort themselves out! Sorry for the random pov shift in the middle, hope it wasn't too bad. thank you to my marvelous, JewFlexive for betaing!! 
> 
> also! We've only got ~four chapters to go!!! Im really enjoying writing the ending (it's literally so fun to write fluff?!) <33
> 
> Title from "Sunflower, Vol. 6" by Harry Styles. 
> 
> Let me know what you guys thought!! Your comments mean the world to me <33


	29. We were gods (we were kids)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[[SPOILERS/WARNINGS]]]] sibling death, mentions of rape, mentions past child abuse

“Jaskier,” the witcher mumbles, his warmth comforting in the soft breeze. The bard hums at him, fingers working over a tune. “You said I’d rape you again. After Yenna.” 

And suddenly, they’re stopped on the trail, the bard looking at the witcher, the witcher at the bard. He sees Geralt hide a grimace, his lips twitching and nose flaring as he smells the bard’s anxiety in the air.

“It was just a slip of the mouth and it was _months_ ago, dear friend, nothing more than tha—”

“No,” It’s so final, Geralt playing jury and judge as he acknowledges his sentence. “I did take you against your will. And—” They barely make it to the side of the road before Geralt falls to his knees, looking so heartachingly open as he looks up at Jaskier. “I know you are afraid. You have every right to be, after I raped you— _repeatedly_.” 

The bard opens his mouth to protest but Geralt barrels on.

“It’s true. Whether we want it to be or not, and whether it was both of our faults or not, I was ignorant to your unwants and dislikes, to your _fear_ ,” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand into his own, scarred, calloused hands cupping his ever so gently. Ernest eyes never leave Jaskier’s his own, shining with sincerity genuinity as Geralt stumbles over words, still so unaccustomed foreign to using them. “I am undeserving of your second chance, after I treated you so horribly, even before… all this. Each day is healing,” he says quietly, just for the both of them to hear, though no one is around but the ever-patient Roach, “and each day is a day I am ever grateful to you for giving me.”

Jaskier sniffles, anxiety gone from the air around him as he mourns for their past, and hopes for their future. He wordlessly guides Geralt back to his feet, not quite sure how to say that he’s taken Geralt’s promise to heart, that he hears him. He settles for a gentle squeeze to the witcher’s palm and a watery smile and doesn’t let go of his hand, even as their palms turn sweaty and gross. Geralt gives him a small smile back, genuine, and Jaskier knows he’s understood.

~~

It takes them several more months to reach Lettenhove. Leaves are still only beginning to turn into their browns and reds, falling from trees that have stood there for far longer than humanity has graced the Continent. An idle breeze makes them flutter, though it doesn’t help in the slightest. He can’t breathe. He hears Geralt call out to him as his world tips, tears blurring his eyes. He can’t help but ask the tavern-goer, dread swirling in his stomach. 

“How— how long?” He hears a muffled _years ago, perhaps five? Six?_

A sudden rage overtakes Jaskier— the bastard hasn’t even bothered to remember when his _sister had_ _died_. His chest feels too heavy, as if clogged by purple orchids. It can’t be true, Emelia, couldn’t have— Jaskier feels his knees crumple, nearly crashing to the floor before Geralt catches him by the hips.

“Geralt, please,” he hears himself say, breathless as he’s lowered to a chair, “She’s not dead, she’s not, Emelia’s so strong, she’d never just _succumb_ to a _fever_ of all things.” 

Despite his denial, Jaskier can’t help the horribly numb feeling that works its way up his body and seeps into his heart, making him shiver so uncontrollably in his seat that he can barely nod when Geralt asks if he can hug him. 

“I need to go see,” he clutches his friend’s collar in desperation; Geralt takes his hand into his own and they set off.

~~

Lettenhove is nothing but bad memories and bad emotions, pain and familial heartbreak swept into one horrible city facading as a royal, proper, prim place. Their family estate is long gone, swept into ruin after the Earl and Countess had died, Emelia having died before them. It’s somehow miraculous how nature can manage to lay destruction to a building that had destroyed him so. He feels oddly grateful for the vines that curl up through and over the walls, each leaf avenging their pain.

Jaskier grieves, though, for he’s lost not only the house and his parents, but his sister, too, all that he had had left is gone without him even knowing it. He sobs into Geralt’s tunic, remembering his sister sinking into bed next to him to tell him stories to distract from their growling stomachs, sneaking through the halls to keep out of their parents’ way, her unabashed laughs, despite the misery of their lives. He sobs in front of all the passersby, in front of the cursed house that had once stood so proud, filled with jewels, riches, but not an ounce of love.

~~

If breathing is a battle, then moving is a war. The idea of just shuffling his feet renders Jaskier senseless, grief filling every crevice of his body, his nerves overridden with hopelessness. He’d never get another fucking chance to even see her, much less beg for her forgiveness and make things right with her.

By the time that Geralt comes back from hunt, forced to take down the barghests that’d been scaring off their trade just to stay for the night, Jaskier has not having moved an inch from where the witcher had left him, staring listlessly at the wall, the food in front of him cool and untouched.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, worry etched onto his face in a tightness around his eyes.

Jaskier’s still mindless with mourning, his tongue too heavy to reply as he remembers what had been, the small comforts he and Emelia had traded— a flower behind an ear, a lovely braid, hushed stories before bed— imagining what could have been.

If only Jaskier had come here a couple years earlier. If only he hadn’t been so stupidly afraid of encountering his parents, he could have… he could have—

“Jaskier,” Geralt says louder, calling for his attention. The bard startles as he forces his head to turn to the side from where he’s laid on the bed. Words won’t come to him— he can’t soothe the guilt in Gerarlt’s eyes for having startled him, can’t apologize for worrying him. He can only stare blankly, seeing Geralt, but mostly seeing a body, a filled-in outline, which soon blurs into a blob and then into nothing.

He realizes belatedly that he’s started crying again. Geralt takes the bard into his arms, his back against the wall, Jaskier lying between the witcher’s legs as the bard cries into his shoulder, the gentle tears giving away to hideous sobbing, his chest heaving as he grieves what he had and what he’ll never have again. 

They set off for the coast the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah heck, I'm so sorry for killing her off guys, ik you guys wanted to meet her— I didn't mean to it kinda just happened (same story for the rest of my fic lmaooo xD). But hey! At least Jaskier got some closure! Hang in there, then next three or so chapters (the last three or so chapters) are v. fluffy!! 
> 
> Ik it's been 29 chapters but I still refresh my inbox every three seconds like my fic's still a baby and not a teenager about to move out of the house :(( wow we're really close to the end.  
> I love you guys, it's crazy how much i've written and it certainly wouldn't have been possible without you all and im gonna shut up before i get into how much you all mean to me. <333
> 
> So lemme know what ya thought! <33
> 
> Many thanks to my ever-gracious beta, JewFlexive (@jew-flexive on tumblr), they're a literal miracle worker. <333 Come say hi to me on tumblr @persony-pepper! 
> 
> Title from "Battle Cries" by The Amazing Devil.


	30. Same lips red (same eyes blue)

The morning breeze ruffles Geralt’s hair, silver waving in the wind. His bard is a quiet warmth beside him, his arm slung over the witcher’s waist, the other hand wrapped around a steaming cup of chamomile tea. He leans his head against the bard’s shoulder, shifting closer to him as the birds sing their first songs to the slowly lightening sky, to the sailor’s that are already at sea, and to a witcher curled up in a bard’s arms.

They do this nearly everyday, watching the sun rise, listening to the birds sing. They have a life Geralt couldn’t have possibly imagined, no matter if he were a starving artist or even Kvasir himself, a god of inspiration.

He sighs as Jaskier presses a kiss to the top of his head. Their touches are far less hesitant as they’d been only a couple years prior. It seems to be forever ago that this whole mess had started, though it could only be three, four years at most, all leading up to this very second, Gerlt’s body wrapped in strong, lithe arms against the chill morning air of their seaside home. He smiles as a hand slips into his hair, calloused fingertips gently rubbing over his scalp as the sun rises.

He should be nervous. But in the last year and a half they’ve spent _healing_ , soothing each other’s fears, guilts, comforting through nightmares and storming out in frustration, only to always come back— in the time they’ve spent living their truths, Geralt’s come to understand that Jaskier will love him. That if he says no, it doesn’t mean he loves him any less, only that they have more talking and learning to do.

He turns his head, kissing Jaskier’s shoulder, only to earn himself a soft chuckle. “Feeling a little clingy today, are we, Geralt?” 

The witcher hums and turns them around so they’re face to face, taking the cup of tea from Jaskier’s hands and setting it down, slipping his hands over Jaskier’s face before the man can go too red in the face with protest. 

“Melitele, you’re lucky I love you, you tea-thieving bastard.” 

The playful grin on Jaskier’s face—there’s no song to describe its beauty, no poem to reflect the handsome quirk of the man’s lips, the radiance of happiness in his eyes. Geralt wants to swallow this moment, to devour it like a starved man and pray it’ll stay in him forever, for it’s simply too precious to be lost.

They sway to the songs of the birds, Jaskier’s head leaning on Geralt’s chest, the witcher’s own tilted towards the bard’s. They’re intertwined with each other, like the two old women, so frail they could barely stand, he’d seen when he’d been just out of Kaer Morhen before his first hunt. He’d scoffed at them then. Now, he knows they’ll carry on their tradition, dancing with each other in the early morning breeze.

The bard hums, joining the choir of birds that call out to one another, as if he’s calling out to Geralt in his own lark language.

“Jaskier?” Geralt can feel his heart pick up in speed, not in anxiety, but in anticipation, in hope. The bard hums a reply from where he’s relaxed, half draped over his lover as they shift side to side. Geralt slides his right arm upward over Jaskier’s back, his left sliding behind his waist as he pulls the man into a hug, smiling as he feels his lover’s hands wrap around him. “Wanted to ask you something.” 

Jaskier kisses down Geralt’s neck, his lips soft against his warm skin.

“It’ll have to wait,” Jaskier says, when he finally draws back. The witcher cocks his head in a silent question. His bard only smells of happiness and content, if his heart beats a little quicker, though it doesn't seem to be with fear. “Can I touch you?” Jaskier murmurs into his ear, nipping at his lobe before kissing down again. Geralt shivers, heart skipping a beat as he realizes just _why_ he’ll have to wait, but forces himself to pull away, looking at Jaskier.

“You want to… to take me? You’re… ready?” Jaskier murmurs a yes, eyes wide, eager and swimming lust and truth. “And not because you’re— you truly want to? Have sex— with me?”

“Yes. Do you? Do you want me to fuck you because you want me to, nothing less?” Geralt nearly growls as he step forward, eager to have this, after so long, he’s _high_ off the trust Jaskier’s giving him. The bard chuckles, bringing his palm up to cup Geralt’s cheek before pulling back. 

“Slow down, my darling,” Geralt melts into his embrace, quite sure he looks like a lovesick fool, as he does every time Jaskie calls him by some sweet name, “Time herself has slowed to let us play.” The witcher rolls his eyes in a meaningless jab at his bard’s dramatics, but allows himself to be drawn in again, eagerly pressing their lips together.

It’s not their first kiss, not by any means, but it’s the first kiss that’s been real to the _both_ of them. He shivers as Jaskier’s lips drag softly over his own, moving in quiet tandem. They part, the two of them breathless, foreheads pressed together. Jaskier draws his thumb over Geralt’s cheek and the witcher watches, eyes open where they’d been woefully closed before. His bard is flushed, lips just slightly swollen, and eyes blown in lust.

He still smells of happiness, no bitter fear or anger tainting the air between them and the scent of lust, spicy and sharp, promising a splendid taste— it’s not an unfamiliar scent to smell around Jaskier, but it’s definitely the first time he’s smelled the want so _strongly_. It makes Geralt preen, that it’s him the bard craves in order to satisfy that hungry look in his eyes.

Geralt leans in to press another gentle kiss to Jaskier’s lips, only to have his cheeks cupped and all at once, they’re walking back into their bedroom, balcony door left open, forgotten as they tug off clothes with sure movement, desperate and patient all at once.

“Jaskier,” he moans into the bard’s mouth, leaning back onto their bed, Jaskier following over him. He pulls back, running soft hands over Geralt’s sides and damn him, the witcher feels so incredibly loved under Jaskier’s adoring eyes, under his adoring touch.

“I trust you to tell me if you want to stop. I’ll tell you, too, if I need to.” 

The witcher nods in reply, earning himself a soft kiss before Jaskier kneels between his parted legs. The bard kisses down his chest, fingers trailing over his sides, a sly smirk working its way onto his face as Geralt whimpers when his lips come to rest on his nipples.

“Good?” Jaskier mumbles, working the stub sensitive between his lips, licking over it before turning to the other, not leaving before they’re both pink with oversensitivity. Geralt gasps as the bard pinches one softly, his hips bucking up into nothing. “Such a dear heart,” and gods— is this what it’s supposed to be like? Soft kisses, soft touches, and soft praise all melting into mind numbing pleasure?

“Jaskier,” oh, the poor beg is lost to a whine as the bard wraps his mouth around the top of his cock, making the witcher keen with want. “Fuck, I—” 

Jaskier pulls off him immediately, concern growing on his face as Geralt pants and looks up at him with hooded eyes. “Are you alright? Do you want to stop?”

He gets an absolute _no_ in reply. 

Jaskier chuckles, a comforting hand wrapped over his hip as the other reaches into his pocket, pulling out a corked bottle of clear liquid. It’s scented with chamomile and Geralt _drowns_ in the scent of the lube, the cooling tea—of Jaskier’s happiness. He never wants to smell anything else than the herbal, earthy scent and drowns a happy man.

He kisses down Geralt’s cock, lubed finger slowly circling his hole, rubbing against it, barely pushing in. The witcher finds himself oddly patient, the two of them are lost to their own world, their first time lost in each other, touching and being touched— he shudders as Jaskier blows over his cock, his back arching in need. “Please,” he mumbles, a long, unhesitating moan as Jaskier’s finger finally pushes into him. “Oh thank Melitele,” he mumbles, the bard’s slick hand wrapped around his cock, the other fingering him open.

Jaskier laughs, the sound of fae, the sound of bells. It’s _gorgeous_ , he’s gorgeous and when Geralt takes care to tell him so, the bard lights up, a grin on his face as he kisses Geralt’s cockhead again, slowly working his finger in and out of him as he sucks and strokes. The witcher can’t help the shuddering breath that works his way out of him, relief as he finally allows himself this, the last realization he needs that they’ve truly come so far in fixing themselves that Jaskier’s eyes don’t dim when he’s complimented in bed, but light up in joy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles, running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair as he licks a stripe on the underside of his cockhead. “Oh fuck, Jaskier—” the bard works him up to three fingers, until Geralt is an incoherent mess of breathless pleas. He can’t help the desperate sound that leaves his mouth when Jaskier pulls away completely. 

The bard leans forwards, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth, “Good?” 

Oh Gods, it’s _perfect_ , his body warm against Jaskier, pressed together so wonderfully, but not enough, never enough, he can’t ever get enough of his bard. He wants to say that, that he loves him, that he’d never thought he could have this, that this is how it’s _supposed_ to be, and not rough and harsh and unloving. Instead, all he can wrestle past his lips, eyes oddly blurry, is a harsh, “Good.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Jaskier swipes a thumb under his eyes. “You sure?” He takes the bard’s hand into his own, intertwining their fingers together and letting their hands rest beside his head.

“Happy tears, not because— I… I love you. I love you so much, Jaskier.” 

The bard’s eyes melt more, glacier-colored irises leading way to warm springs of clear water, dripping down his face. Geralt’s heart pangs as Jaskier’s tears flow, their foreheads pressed together.

“Have I said something wrong?” Geralt asks, quiet, so quiet, so afraid of the answer.

Jaskier’s chuckle is wet, filled with emotion, though he’s smiling and looks happy and Geralt can only smell chamomile— 

“Oh no, my love, I’m crying because I’m happy, too,” he whispers back.

Geralt hums and traces a finger over the bard’s lips, letting the man press a soft kiss to it before propping himself onto his elbows, their hands still connected as he kisses Jaskier, their tears dripping down between them. Eventually, the bard pushes him back down and straightens, running his fingers one more time over Geralt’s hole, making the witcher’s breath hitch as his fingers catch, before lining his cock up.

His left hand is still intertwined with Jasksier’s, and he’s careful not to squeeze it too hard as his love _finally_ pushes into him, ever so slowly. The witcher’s breathless, staring into eyes so blue, so determined as Geralt’s lips part. He can hear Jaskier’s heart, so slow, so unhurried. Geralt’s eyes slip closed as the bard bottoms out; he hears him let out a breath as if he’s been holding it for long. There’s a hand gripping around his waist, oh so gently as the hand intertwined with his own moves away to thumb over Geralt’s eyelid.

“Look at me, my darling,” he nuzzles into the palm cupping his cheek, “Oh, you’re so beautiful, my darling, look at you, filled with my cock,” Jaskier leans forward, balancing his weight onto his forearms as he shallowly thrusts back into his lover.

His movements are slow, languid as they look into each other’s eyes, their bodies brushing together with each of Jaskier’s slow thrusts. He rubs his calloused hands up Jaskier’s sides, intertwining them into his hair as he kisses the bard again, every so gentle with his touches. They rock together for hours, it feels like longer, it feels like all the years they’ve both hurt each other being rewritten with this, with slow thrusts, breathless moans and endless praise, so loving. _Loving_. The witcher can’t help the whimper that escapes him as he realizes exactly what they’re doing, his brows furrowing.

 _Lovemaking_. 

“Jaskier?” The bard smiles up at him, endless adoration in his eyes.

“Yes, dear heart?”

“We’re making love.” 

The bard chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth stretched into the loveliest grin Geralt thinks he’s ever seen.

“We are, aren’t we?” He buries his head into Geralt’s neck, the witcher’s cock rubbing against his stomach, soft with the lack of traveling they’ve been doing, but entirely beautiful. He wants to worship his bard, kiss him anyplace he can, nibble, praise. He wants to forget himself in Jaskier, to lose himself into nothing but Jaskier. He will, he will if his bard will let him later.

“I—” he grunts as Jaskier’s hips angle just so, sending sparks up his spine, behind his eyes as he arches into his lover’s chest, “Fuck, gonna be the death of me, bard,” he mutters, finding his voice as Jaskier smirks, only to keep thrusting at it. Gods, he’s going to come undone. “I like it,” he manages to stutter out, “I like lovemaking. With you.” Jaskier pulls him back into a kiss, much deeper than their last ones as he thrusts faster, still draped over Geralt’s body. “Jask,” he gasps out, his toes curling, desperate noise escaping parted lips, sounds that Jaskier swallows greedily.

“Come for me, Geralt,” he feels Jaskier wrap his hand around the witcher’s cock, spurring him on with melodic praises, “You’re beautiful, look at your eyes, look so beautiful, so beautiful when they’re swimming with pleasure, you’re such a pretty man, all mine, aren’t you?” Geralt uses the last of his mind to nod a yes, “That’s right, all mine, pretty Geralt, come on,” he pumps his cock faster, thrusting deeper, quicker into Geralt, “come for me.”

  
Geralt hears someone wail, deep, rumbling, and thinks _Melitele, is that me?_ before he blacks out from the pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They!!! Did it!!! Look at that Explicit Consent!! I'm so fucking proud of them, guys my gods.
> 
> JewFlexive, of course, worked their beta magic on this <333 Thanks so much, my love!
> 
> Lemme know what you guys thought, this chapter was just so <3333 to write, hope it was the same to read! 
> 
> Title from "Two Ghosts" by Harry Styles.


	31. A/N

Heyyy guys! Long time no see, I'm so sorry about that, I was trynna figure out how to convey what's going on and I was like "but im not ready to post another chapter" and then had an epiphany that I didn't need to post a chapter to get out an author's note.

So anyways! I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while! We have two chapters to go, one of which I've written but it's not quite done yet, the other I have the outline down but haven't written. I'm participating in Geralt Whump Week and I found out about it like, three days before it started so I'm scrambling to get things written (I am Determined).

So till ~the ninth or tenth of July, I won't be able to dedicate time to this. Fear not! It is still very much in the forefront of my mind, just that I'm putting it aside for a brief, brief while to work on another thing.

Thank you all for understanding. I know I've left you like this _riiighht_ before the end of the fic, but I don't want to rush the ending and give it the effort and time it deserves.

I love you all. Thank you for tuning in.

See you soon,

Pepper.


	32. Know that you will always find a home in me (So no sorrow, no)

He wakes up to sunlight, curtains swaying idly in the sea breeze. Jaskier’s curled up in his arms, half-asleep, lazily looking up at him through hooded eyes. “Rise and shine, my love,” he calls playfully, one hand tracing patterns onto the witcher’s chest. Geralt presses a kiss to the bard’s forehead. 

“How are you?” The bard chuckles, cuddling closer before letting his eyes slip shut.

“I should be asking you that, Master  _ I Blacked Out During Sex.” _ Geralt stiffens. Had he? Fuck, he’d mesed up, the first time they have sex and he falls  _ asleep _ — he feels a hand over his heart, rubbing his skin softly.

“Come back to me, dear heart,” Jaskier mumbles quietly, gently coaxing him back from the panic he feels himself about to fall into. “You did so well for me, you were so good,” he says, “I love you so very much.”

Slowly, Geralt relaxes into him, silver hair tangled up in his eyes, sunlight warm against his skin. They lay together, listening to the crashing of waves in the near distance. “Geralt?” he looks up at his bard, his lashes nearly white under golder light. “What were you going to ask me?” The witcher hums and turns so their chests are parallel to one another.

He looks into Jaskier’s eyes so blue, his heart so open, and what better time to ask.

I know I’ve h—hurt you. In the past,” he grimaces, looks down, only for Jaskier to tilt his head up by his chin, look into his eyes. “But I’ve… I really want to—” Oh, he’s making a proper mess of things. He sighs, flopping onto his back in defeat.

“Alright, up with you,” he stares at Jaskier, who stands by the bed, holding out a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up, you smelly bastard, and I trust you’ll ask me when you’re ready.” Geralt nods before a grumble, knowing full well that all he smells of is sex, sweat, and Jaskier. But, bards and their dramatic, he supposes.

Water is heated by careful bursts of igni; they’re both far too lazy to do things the proper way, not when they’re both still high off each other’s sounds and pleasure.

Geralt settles into the tub, Jaskier between his legs, his back to the witcher’s chest. Geralt takes the soap, rubbing down Jaskier’s back and arms, through the hair on his chest, over his shoulders and up his neck. The bard relaxes back against him, exhausted from their lovemaking, so tired but so content as he hums a quiet tune for the both of them. There’s a comfortable silence between the two of them, the quiet slosh of water and the bard’s humming only adding to their intimacy.

~~

The evening sun is high in the sky by the time they both finish, drying off. He carries his bard back to bed, asleep in his arms before tucking him under their mussed covers, never made, before climbing in underneath the blankets alongside him. Geralt draws the bard to him, arm around his hips as his own eyes slip closed, basking in his lover’s warmth.

~~

He wakes to blue eyes staring back at him, only to close quickly once they realize the object of their observations is awake. “I saw you,” Geralt’s voice is rough with sleep, so much so that it’s a miracle Jaskier even understands him.

“No, you didn’t,” he grumbles back, “I’m asleep.” 

The witcher rolls his eyes and quickly moves the bard onto his back, straddling him before  _ attacking _ . 

Jaskier shakes in laughter and giggles, begging as Geralt tickles at his sides, bucking in attempt to throw Geralt off him. “Alright, alright!” he says, holding up his hands, eyes wide open, “you caught me, you win.” He’s panting, his cheeks flushed and eyes lined with tears from his laughs. “Didn’t want to get out of bed,” he mumbles, shoving the witcher off him and cuddling back into Geralt’s side when he falls back onto the bed, content with his victory.

Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier's shoulders and brings him even closer. “Shame, was thinking of making naleśniki for dinner,” the bard’s stomach rumbles at the mention. “I guess not,” he shrugs nonchalantly, knowing he’s already won the conversation. 

“Fine! We can get out of bed, but only because you’re bribing me, you cheat,” Jaskier relents, a feigned pout on his face as he crawls out from under their tangled covers. He turns to face Geralt, “Well? Come now, I’m not getting any younger and my moisturizing routine can only do so much,” he then leans against the doorway, his back arched and a hand to his forehead in the perfect mimicry of a damsel in distress, “you wouldn’t leave an old man waiting, would you?”

Geralt snorts, knowing full well the idiot man stopped aging when he was in his twenties. “‘spose not, no point in leaving a dramatic bard to fester in his own naleśniki-less existence.” 

“Good man. Wait—Dramatic? Dramatic?! I assure you, I am anything  _ but _ dramatic, my good sir—” 

Geralt chuckles and starts pulling out ingredients as his bard squawks in indignation. 

~~ 

Jaskier’s covered in flour. He’s not quite sure how, but it looks as if a bag of it’s exploded in the kitchen somehow, and lost in his careful preparation of the fillings, Geralt hadn’t noticed the flour-covered-Jaskier stab at a bowl of batter with a cucumber, yelling  _ Why. Won’t. You. Die _ . A phrase usually reserved for a certain Valdo Marx when they happen to come across him (are  _ all _ bards immortal?).

Geralt’s nearly afraid of calling out to his own bard, afraid he’ll lose his composure and burst into uncontrollable laughter if Jaskier looks at him, milk dripping from his hair (how he got  _ milk _ in it is a mystery he’s not sure he’ll ever solve), egg smeared over his cheek, his hand gripping a cucumber, raised, poised, and ready to attack the poor mess of batter in the bowl.

Geralt instead leans against the counter, resting on his elbows as he watches his bard with barely contained amusement. He’s not sure what he’s done to be blessed with this life, blessed with an ever-living bard, blessed with his love and this second chance they’ve done such good on. He quietly thanks Destiny as he hears Jasksier swear,  _ “Oh cock!” _ followed by a loud clang, batter and unmixed milk and water splashing onto the floor over the side of the dropped bowl. Geralt can’t help it. 

He throws his head back and  _ cackles. _

Only to have a blob of  _ something _ thrown at his face. He’s got to commend the precise aim as it lands on his cheek. He looks up at Jaskier to see him grinning, something feral shining in his eyes.

“What? Can’t take on a silly old human, witcher?” Geralt growls, a grin spreading over his face.

“Bring it on, bard.”

~~ 

They crash to the floor, a heap of giggles and breathless chuckles as Jaskier slips, Geralt falling soon after him after a desperate attempt to catch the bard. They melt into the wood floor, backs against flour and milk and egg and Melitele knows what else. He turns to face the bard, who’s only just working out the last of his giggles before sighing and staring up at the ceiling, entirely content. He’s beautiful, he thinks that so very often, how beautiful his bard is. And now feels like the time, more than it ever has.

“Marry me.” Jaskier’s head turns to his so fast that Geralt worries for his lover’s neck.

“What?” He asks, eyes widened in surprise. 

“Marry m—”

“Yes.” Geralt grins, his heat so fast in his chest, he thinks it might run right out of it.

“Yes?” Jasksier flips over to his stomach, his grin so wide, his face filled with such glee that Geralt wonders why he’d been so unsure and awkward earlier. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, cupping flour-covered cheeks.

Breathless, the bard pulls away, “Yes,” he mumbles once more. His arms tighten around Geralt’s waist in a tight hug, holding so very close, “ _ Gods _ , yes.”

Geralt spends the rest of the night worshipping his betrothed in their bed, in their home, by the coast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok you caught me I lied what can i say Im a simple human with simple human needs and my needs include immediately writing after saying I can't write for a while Im sorry. xD All jokes aside, I really am sorry for the surprise chapter! The next (last) one ill be out sometime next week maybe, my guess i as good as yours.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments lemme know that someone's still reading this train-wreck <33 makes me day. 
> 
> Thank you all for putting up with me!! We're so close to the end! 
> 
> Title from "So It Goes" by Robert Hallow and The Holy Men!


	33. It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you

The wedding preparations are well underway by the time doubt hits Jaskier square in the chest. Geralt has been so good to him, so lovely and sweet, playful (a word he’d  _ never _ thought of describing his witcher when they’d first met) and so happy, it leaves Jaskier breathless. He smiles so often, kisses Jaskier without hesitation, touches him so carefully.

And  _ yet _ , doubt creeps in on him so suddenly, that he can’t even answer the florist when he asks what their color scheme is, can’t hear anything outside of hazy mumbles.  _ He’s using you, he doesn’t love you, it’s a lie, he doesn’t want this, you’re just a stand in, it’s only pity. _

“Sorry,” he mumbles absentminded as he heads for the door, “I’m not feeling well, I’ll come back later, I’m sorry.” The florist stares at him for a moment longer before leaving him to stumble out the door.

He doesn’t remember walking back home, doesn’t remember climbing into bed, curling in on himself and hiding under the blanket away from the world. Doesn’t hear Geralt calling out for him, worry in his voice. 

All he can hear is his mind’s whispers, doubt and fear and sorrow in his chest.  _ You’ll never be good for him, he’ll leave you for Yenn the moment he realizes it, will you be able to stand and watch your  _ husband _ touch another? Live through it all over again? Jaskier, you fool, you know you would. _

He feels hands on him, his body shifted into someone’s lap, a deep voice, calm and even, calling for his attention.

_ “Jaskier, can you hear me? Jask, are you alright?”  _ He flinches as he comes back to himself, looking up from where he's rested against Geralt, his head on the witcher’s shoulder as he blinks up at him.

“You’re going to leave me. Why are you tying yourself to me if you’re only going to leave me, Geralt?” His voice is surprisingly firm. He’s not the best at confrontations, especially when he feels so small.

Geralt’s eyes tighten. “I’m not going to leave you, Jaskier. Not ever.”

The bard huffs and straightens, slipping out of Geralt’s lap to sit opposite to him. “Come now, you know I love you, you know I’ll always be here for you when trails of heartbreaks lead you back to me, and yet, you want me to be your husband? I don’t understand.”

The witcher looks at him for a moment longer before he takes Jaskier’s hands into his own, a finger glinting with a golden band, his right hand still donning the courting bracelet. “You don’t understand?” Geralt hums to himself, running the pad of his thumbs over the back of Jaskier’s hands. “I’ll try my best to… explain.” Golden eyes train on him, idly sunlight draping itself over their bed as they sit hand in hand.

“Kaer Morhen is home. But I only return there for winters, and nothing else has made me feel so… secure. And welcome. And when I found that you did, I refused it— refused your friendship. You were too happy, too good for me, went after Yenn, fell in love, only to—” he clears his throat, shame making red crawl up his neck, “Come back to you. To security and… home.” Jaskier relaxes just barely, gazing into his betrothed’s eyes, remembering.

“When I finally let you in, realized I’ve wanted you all along, loved you form the start, I started courting you, but I hadn’t realized that I’d hurt you so,” guilt chokes up the witcher’s voice, “didn’t realize I’d— I’d  _ broken  _ you, Jaskier, I was so clueless, you were so sad and I had no idea why and it was  _ me _ all along. And I though the gifts would make you happy, fucking my brothers would cheer you up but  _ nothing _ worked, not till we talked. And you gave me another chance— that was when I realized that I’d do  _ anything _ for you. You’re asking me why— because, I know you’re here, I know you love me, but you didn’t account for the fact that  _ I love you in equal measure.” _

Jaskier feels his breath hitch as he listens to his lover, words taken to heart. Can it be true? That he loves him in equal measure? It feels as if his love for Geralt spans the size of the world and universe, contained so securely in his chest. He can’t help a small, insecure, “Do you?” that slips past his lips.

Geralt smiles, leaning forward to press a small kiss to his forehead. “I do,” he mumbles, pulling back, his eyes so earnest as he cups Jaskier’s face. “Want to live with you, bicker with you, bake with you— if you can call it baking—” Jaskier grins, a blush high on his cheeks, “and, I want… “ he hums, glancing away almost shyly before he looks a him, “I want pups. With you.”

The confession leaves Jaskier breathless, his lips parted. Of course, neither of them can bear children, but where magic exists, there must be a way, or— or someone to conceive for them— the bard can imagine it now, children trailing behind them, visiting Geralt at work at the blacksmith’s, birthdays... A shuddering breath leaves his chest as both of Geralt’s hands come to cup his cheeks.

“I want that, too,” he whispers. “I’m scared, Geralt, this feels too good to be true, like it’s a dream, and I’m actually underneath you while you fuck me, pretending.”

“It’s not.” Jaskier leans forward, restring his head against Geralt’s shoulder, feeling the man’s voice in his own chest through the vibrations, “It’s not, I’ll tell you every day, every time you doubt— I love you, I want you.”

Jaskier hums, pressing a gentle kiss to Geralt’s neck, letting the witcher wrap his arms around him in a hug. “Alright.” The witcher spends the rest of the evening telling his bard just that.

Eventually, the sun sets and Jaskier’s still curled up into Geralt’s embrace, content to simply stay still in eachother’s hold.

“Come on,” Geralt whispered finally, “Let’s go see if our florist’ll find us some nice flowers to go with our theme.

~~

She does, sets of chamomile and buttercups. And the baker makes the most splendid little cake, pressed yellow dandelion petals along its side. Lambert eyes it hungry as they set up the draping fabric arch.

Jaskier puts the last touches of makeup on his face, a hint of kohl under his eye, a gentle coaxing of rouge on his lips and turns to face Vesemir. The oldest witcher takes a look at him, hums, straightens his doublet, pins a silver tiara of intertwining vines and flowers and in his hair, and makes sure his bracelet is shined for all to see. The bard takes one last look in the mirror, half disbelieving that this is happening, that he’s to marry Geralt.

He slips his ring off and onto his smallest finger, leaving his fourth ready for another promise, smiles at Vesemir, nervous. The man draws him into a hug.

“Ready, Julian?” Jaskier grins. Oh Melite, he  _ aches _ to be with his beloved. Vesemir smiles, leaves to take his place under the wedding arches to officiate and Jaskier stands to the left of him.

The decorations are finished, Eskel stands some way away, holding a box lined with cushions, two rings resting on it. Lambert, surprisingly enough, walks Geralt down the aisle.

He looks  _ breathtaking _ , clothes embroidered silver embroidery, ethereal with a comb pinning his hair back, lips lined with the barest smudge of rouge. 

And oh fuck,  _ fuck— _ Jaskier feels the tears build up in his eyes, Prisc playing a song of futures and hope as Geralt comes to stand across from him.

“You alright?” And what kind of question is that? Jaskier nods, lips pressed together in attempt to keep his emotions in, but oh what’s the point.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick, “Yeah, you just look so beautiful, I’m just so— I can’t believe this is happening.” 

Geralt grins at him, fangs on full display, amber eyes shining. “You look good, too.” Jaskier laughs, as Lambert calls out  _ ever the romantic, _ Vesemir glaring at him as Eskel hides a snicker. 

It’s over as quick as it started, an exchanging of rings, a kiss and Jaskier cries throughout it all, hideous, fat tears slipping down his face. Geralt calls him beautiful through it all, too, much to Vesemir’s annoyance. Years of pain have lead to the moment they kiss, and Vesemir pronounces this husbands forevermore. 

A future of happiness, a home, and family. Jaskier thinks he could very well get used to that, and as his husband scoops him into his arms, the wolves hooting behind them along with a cheering Priscilla, the bard knows that Geralt looks forward to it, too, no matter what pain and agony it took to get here. He loves him. And he knows he's loved, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I’ve seen enough," he says, "I know exactly what I want  
>  And it’s this life that we’ve created  
> Inundated with the fated thought of you  
> And if you asked me to, if you asked me I would lose it all  
> Like petals in a storm  
> 'Cause darling I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades  
> At night when light is fading  
> Just to let you know I’m old, waylaid and feels like I am wading  
> Into carpet burns and carousels  
> Christ, you’ll be the death of me,"_
> 
> _And calm throughout his melodrama, she will turn and say  
>  "Dear heart, it’s me, its me  
> You don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not  
> 'Cause it’s not like I’ve never heard you fart and snore  
> And for some godforsaken reason  
> I’m still here, love, like I’ve always been before..." _
> 
>   
> The last stop on the angst-hurt/comfort train. We've been on it for a long while, haven't we? Time we got off, here, let me help you down the step. 
> 
> This story as an incredible journey for me, gods, still not sure how I managed to pull it off. This feels monumental, finishing my first fic, how much I loved this thing, how much I hated it and how much it made me feel.
> 
> Thank you all for staying till the end, it means so much. I certainly, without a doubt, wouldnt have been able to write this, continue it, and end it if it hadn't been for your guys' support. Each comment, no matter how inconsequential you might have felt it to be, was _so_ important to me. You guys' effort in this fic was equivalent to mine, you wrote it just as much as I did. I'm not saying it lightly when I say that I cannot thank you all enough. Thank you. So much. 
> 
> For the last time here, lemme know what you thought; your comments give me great joy <33 I love you guys. 
> 
> If you guys are interested in my writing, or the witcher, etc., come say hi on tumblr @persony-pepper; i take writing prompts and it's v. fun <33.
> 
> Title from "Fair" by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> Once again, I love you all. Goodbye, it's been an incredible pleasure to write for you all and may we see each other on another angst train soon.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr's @persony-pepper, come say hi! <33 I rb witcher things and take geraskier writing prompts of all kinds.


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